He stands alone on a mountain of regret and self loathing
His winter coat looks ratty and he cannot seem to stop shaking from the cold.
It is summer, but it is a summer spent in a cold climate, soaking wet.
Somewhere within himself he hopes to find that which is not lost yet is misplaced,
A simple melody of resolve and self
-confidence to get him through the day.
He has no more comrades. He is alone, and somehow this has made him stronger.
He may die today. But he can survive.
He needs to know what it is he is surviving for first.
He was a simple boy, but he went to war
, and war changed him.
It shamed his family to know he was a murderer. He shamed his
country with his mere existence. He knew this, but he was disconnected from what America
was or what America even ment now.
Betrayed by his nation, by his people, by his commanders.
Betrayed by everyone except the people who were trying to kill him.
He went to Vietnam, and Vietnam
changed him. It was warm, but it was war, and a chill crept up his spine.
If I ever saw him again I would say thanks.
For fighting for peacenik
asshole uncaring idiotic quaker
flagburners like myself.
And helping to fight a war we wouldn't fight.
He lived, but his soul died in Vietnam
. His body went on for a lot longer than he wanted it to.
He fixed that problem which I helped to create, and I am ashamed.
The sucessful conquest in Vietnam was the subjugation of the majority of a generation of American soldiers, by the American Populace
United States Government
. Immorality and inhumanity won the day, back home.