Civil War of
the Soul
You keep asking
the same question
over and over
to those who will not listen:
If it wasn't a
civil war,
then why were we fighting
men, women, and children?
Like Kerouac on
the road,
a hobo riding the rails,
a saint in search of the Grail,
you separate reality from fantasy,
select Fellini as your point man,
cross over life's invisible line of demarcation,
and remove your Rosencrantz and Guildenstern doubt.
For years you've
looked for Viet Nam
after Viet Nam
in the drugs you took
in the alcohol you consumed
until you saw the lie
for what it was.
Now in your early
fifties
you know how lemmings feel
going over the cliff,
know how pigs and cattle feel
when they're led down the chute,
know how young men feel
when they're cannon fodder
in another senseless war.
Left alone like
a refugee
forced to choose
between two countries
you stave off sadness
and suicide
wrestle the demons
in this civil war of the soul.
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