Viet
I hear the sound of their rounds trying to find me,
I see their traces of fire, stuck in the mire of their minds,
Their searching and seeking, their poking and peeking,
Their breath still reeking from the stench of their food and their perfume and thinking.
And here I am, covered in mud and leaves,
With a brain that seethes,
I want their destruction,
There’s no reconstruction, a land that breathes, no sight of eaves,
Just green, but they will not go away.
I pull the trigger and they cannot figure,
Wherein their death becomes them,
They open fire and flare, I smell the stench in the air,
Of their fear and their desire for home.
They want their wives and their husbands,
A loaf and some backrubs,
The toil of the peon, a grub in the soil,
The best of their spoils, and a good show with celebrity,
No matter what the cost.
There’s nothing for me we had ours before,
When sun shone down and we looked at the moon as a god,
We turned over the sod, wrestled the clod,
Planted in soil and prayed to the lune,
And ate only our hunted.
They’ll not eat me, I’ll go to waste,
My life will end, and I’ll have cost them,
Cost them, yes, cost them.
I’ll have cost them, only morality, and time.