Lost Men

( a double Quatern )    
   
   
For some to whom the years have not been kind,  
And beaten into treads of alley cracks.  
Where poison oleander of the mind,  
Grows pink and scarlet all along the tracks.   
   
Is omnipresent, making all else dim,  
For some to whom the years have not been kind.
The remnants of a battle none to slim,  
To oust the honored few we leave behind.    
   
The marches in the blinding rain confined,    
The ossify of driftwood’s living dead.  
For some to whom the years have not been kind,
In olive camaflage of jungle red.    
   
To row a swollen stream without an oar,  
Or bleach upon a dune in dreams to find.  
Did all the lost men fight a godless war,
For some to whom the years have not been kind.    
   
As if their shadows stay to walk the streets,
The host omnipotent is torpor’s self.
To wander aimlessly, each day repeats,    
With nothing left to show for of itself.    
   
Existing in oblivion as truth,   
As if their shadows stay to walk the streets.  
The price to pay to sacrifice one’s youth,
Will mean the cost of flags like covered sheets.    
   
The timpani of echoed solemn beats,  
“When will they ever learn?”, so goes a song.  
As if their shadows stay to walk the streets,
In darker bows in search of what went wrong.    
   
Like orca, to bring death before the mast,    
Another generation fills more seats.  
The overture, their fate has long been cast,   
As if their shadows stay to walk the streets.