One brisk spring morning while the sun was still low and molten orange, city sounds were humming gently to life. An aroma of inviting breakfast scents softly wafted through the air, elusive silence trickled into a soft and soothing sound, a loving mother danced effortlessly as she walked to wake her little boy. Only the sound of his mother’s translucent voice would bring him to life, “Honey, would you like to go to the park today?” Immediately, the little boy sprang to life and leaped out from a cloud of sheets and blankets, flew through his mother’s arm. After breakfast, the little boy and his mother skipped over sidewalk cracks and sang melodic tunes all the way to the park.
The little boy sailed over the earth as he gazed upon the ethereal land that was the park, over a sea of grass blades, over an ocean of sand grains, to the castle that was the playground. His mother always stood near, watching her little boy with mother’s eyes, prone and ready to nurture the scratches and scars of childhood, to give words of encouragement, to be a mother. She watched from a jungle green park bench, a smell of pride ticked her senses, and she let out warm laugh as her son leaped carelessly around the playground. Except for occasional sound of a child and chuckle of a mother, silence reverberated the very molecules of the air. After hours of play, the little boy plopped down with his head in his mother’s awaiting lap. No words were spoken, just the gentle touch of her warm hands sent him off into another realm.
When he awoke on the park bench, his head felt a touch of hardness. Only the wheezing inhale and exhale of the wind rummaged through the park. Air was old, and dry, and harsh upon his face. There was a familiar smell of musk and of blood red leaves, almost metallic. The once green park was now splotched with patches of dirt, neglected. A gloomy mist entwined itself with the air and the saddened sun hung desperately onto the edge of the world, slowly fading, slowly accepting. Chipped paint and exposed wood had taken the place of his mother. Where the boy once sat was now a man whose skin draped loosely off tired, exhausted bones. Eyes once young and vibrant, were now deep and thoughtful, staring into the past, staring into eternity. Each fallen leaf was a distant memory lived long ago. With each leaf that waned to the dirty ground, another memory streaked across his mind, pulling him in every direction. As the last tree, released the last leaf, there was no jolt through his mind, no wheezing of the earth, only stillness and silence had survived.
October 24, 2005
We close our brother’s eyes tonight
A drought in heart, bloodshed comes as a flood
Bullet and gun in hand we stand and fight
Wise hands crave peace, foolish fingers crave blood
Thou shall not kill, remains written with knives
And bloody wounds still pour on fields of death
Some kill for honor, some kill to save their lives
Death lives in war, a war within a breath
Is it that war brings out the worst in men?
Or does the worst in men bring out a war?
The Devil burns the sulfur once again
As flood water washes upon the shore
So, what am I killing my brothers for?
Is this the Lord’s will or the Devil’s war?
October 22, 2005
