You Can't Help Me Now

There’s civil war brewing in my soul.

Propaganda headlines,
patriotism hitting record high.

It’s in the eyes of people
young and old,
on leaflets stapled to
telephone poles.

It’s the ring on her left, oh
the wear it will
endure waiting on
your letters home.

It’s in the meadows,
chosen battlefields and the
televised spiels of leaders;
that we’ve come to a rift in our
entitled bliss and
must send our
kin to
duke it out.

And when they
spout, so we march.
And when we go
down, they’ll say

no harm done.

Only letters
my love opens are
ones without
confederate
seals and slogans, since the only
envelopes worth the read are usually

soaked in
dirt.

“Whatever it’s worth,
I wish you were
with me now.

How so many dominoes
fall for
the cynical dice keeps me
awake at night, listening to
gunfire in the hills.

I’d be a liar
saying I’m not
fucking terrified, but will.

We may not
come home, but even if we do,
the people we were will
remain behind.”

And the hope I
started with of being home
by Christmas turned
by the jingoistic
fields,

blood through the
grass and low trenches they
yield was
rendered real as the
notion
all this God
forsaken commotion would
be for nothing!

(nothing!)

And so I put the
pen down, but
not before
the post-scripts dry.

“Sorry darling, you
can’t help me
now but please,
understand why this
final round is
meant for
me.”

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4 thoughts on “You Can't Help Me Now

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