Peace Laundered

Melancholy hands rub at his lacrimal gland,
Sadness like sand shoveled into a gold diggers pan,
Sifting through mental nuggets of belief is this man,
And leaving heart size rocks of grief on a river in drought,
No gold in this soil just hardened stones of heavy doubt.

His head belts out a cadence in dulled reprise,
He has simple thoughts that somehow defies the wise,
Its an ignorance bliss that excuses the lies,
A self worth like a crushed ball of aluminum foil,
A man was born for work yet he tries to die by its toil.

Consumed by a sphere of angst that he will eventually despise,
A smile that can not flout gravity or the laws it contrives,
There’s a tongue constantly bitten so it deprives,
No enlightened words can escape the soul beneath,
You too would recoil if you where befell by such a grief.

There was no vibration when his heart regressed,
Nothing had vesiculated in emotion or as time progressed,
But there was a fight not felt but he new it transgressed,
A tight clenched resistance beaten back by force,
A messy riot that had slowed him and dissuaded his course.

One man left alive, blood beside his feet,
His body shook even though repressed by the heat,
Even in success you could see his resolve stood there in defeat,
A man who had fought while peace was laundered,
And in battle he realised his time away was squandered.

A man is a leaf caught in an eddy shallow,
Useless as he twists himself into sorrow,
Turning in a daze for days as he forgets tomorrow,
He spins, drowning in his own mental phlegm.
And when awoken he only see’s death and mayhem,

He licks his swollen eye with a tongue half eaten,
His resolve is aware of its fate and knows that it is beaten,
An alone soldier waiting to die as if his destiny was written,
Thoughts of unresolved arguments and unanswered quips,
His solid soul sturdy, while his flesh flails in strips.

He wipes his sweaty forehead with a blood caked rag,
Rings the sodden cloth that was ripped from a white flag,
A slurry of liquid is extracted into a plastic bag,
He gags as he gulps the sweat and blood like cheap wine,
But the cost of it is more then he could ever afford or consign.

The horror in him was no longer frightening,
The thunder that attacked was killed by its own lightning,
The rumbling stopped and the rain that came was cleansing,
No more spinning, or noise, or violence,
He just stood there soaked in stunned silence.