A boy stared with sightless eyes at the starless sky
The smile across his neck would be pretty if it wasn’t bloodshot…
Like one of the many bristles of the brush, his head held ink, dark and red, ready to paint you a picture.
Of what dead hopes taste like on the tongue of hearts tired from trying
Just this morning his eyes held a song,
His knees said a prayer.
Someone lied to him, said there was salvation in the dead fingers of a nation’s anthem.
Told him to keep faith in the green-white-green textile
He came out with a song, just this morning…
So now the boy gazes.
Undead eyes pregnant with horror.
There are missing pages in his story. Hungers never spoken.
And today, we offer paltry libations of honor, to the heroes whose mangled bodies paint our history.