On My Soapbox

I listened to the frightful music in the October killing fields.
Eyes open and mind closed, I left no boulder unturned.

The stories might be unbelievable, but the truth is factual.
Many were reborn.

Not much time for thinking or feeling.
Just doing what needs to be done.

The winds above let nothing known of
the mines buried below.

Explosion orchestras, stealth symphonies,
music in the key of mankind on the run from itself.

Maybe it’s natural, this thing that haunts us.
Battles and suffering like heartbeats,

thumping adrenalin, as hope is lost as
limbs and identity fade fast from aerial blasts.

Slowly, I know most will never come home.
Either alive or the same, they stay.

The second generation dictator is almost out.
Let’s not have another marionette take his place.