Thursday, February 24, 2011
The old oval photograph of someone's dead ancestor
Sits in a pile of junk
The glass is cracked, the paint peeling from the frame
This man had a life once.
He had a wife and was a husband
He knew pain and joy
His life covered many years of our not too distant past
Even the clothes he wore are in some trunk somewhere.
Waiting for the rag pickers and the
Vultures of the flea market
To try to make a buck off the life of someone
Who was once a loved one.
We have people like that today.
Living portraits of people who once had lives
Now they stand in the rain
"I will work for food" the sign says.
They sleep in a box and get packed away
Out of sight, out of mind
They can barely remember having a life themselves
They just want a warm dry place to sleep.
You must not look too deeply into their dead eyes
You may get swept away into the nothing of their existence
Give them a handful of change and be on your way
They drink to forget what they can't remember.
The rain does not wash them clean
The dirt they have is soul deep
They missed the boat
Dropped the ball
There are more of them now.
Whole armies of them all over the world
People who are memories of themselves
They can not even remember how old they are.
They are the leftovers
The lost and missing in action of all the wars
For Freedom we have fought...
They are free now.
Free to be the unseen and barely here
They survived the War but are slowly being killed by the Peace
They gave their all because they thought that was
What they were supposed to do.
They believed the same lies that all soldiers believe
That killing for Peace and Security actually works
Then they come home used up.
No longer needed or wanted.
They, like the old oval photograph
Fall prey to the rag pickers and flea market vultures.
The rain keeps falling
They keep standing until they finally disappear.
And no one even notices that they are gone.
© 2011 Philip G. DeLoach
Posted by Philip DeLoach at 4:10 AM