In the silent chambers of our discontent,

we cried for acceptance.

The sweat of our struggle,

the blood of our fallen comrades,

leaching out of their wounds

into our dreams and sleep,

crashing into our thoughts and feelings,

rising to a stabbing point of need

for it all to have meaning.


In the darkness of our dismissal,

we packed away our medals,

uniforms, and self-worth,

and faded into the shroud

of black lights and pulsing strobes.

Hitchhiking on the streamers

of the psychedelic age,

we hoped to ride into oblivion.  

So great was our pain

from the fracturing of our relevance

that we disappeared

into a world of vanquished dreams.

Sitting with Warrior — Carl Hitchens

one for the books