Jungle silence

   shouts the enemies presence

I know Victor Charles squats—waiting . . . waiting

   and he knows I know

Yet, down the trail I trip

   step . . . listen / look . . . step

Sweat drip

A game I must play

   as armchair warriors rule the day


In the hell-hole of my mind are their faces

And I am pulled

   into their eyes . . . their eyes

Their eyes; wide with terror

    begging for mercy

Yet, grasping their fate—and mine

An eternal pact

In the paddies of my mind

   their screams do resound

Hands over my ears

   only locks them in

I take another sip

But no amount of whiskey ever dulls the trip

The only anodyne I find

   is to re-live that terrible day

And become one with their re-death

Another bond


I study him

He towers over most

   yet feels dwarfed in their presence

He tries to understand life

   but it is a game of Scrabble, sans vowels

He is composed

   but his mind tick . . . tick . . . ticks. . . .

Anger long repressed waiting for a mad minute

He has deep emotions; rivers of anguish can flow from his eyes

   but he can be as hard as a diamond shines

He feels alienated

   observing civilization while gone underground in their midst

He simply seeks peace of mind

   but cannot attain a truce

War’s end?

Not for him

It lingers in his day dreams and nightmares

   the incubus of his soul

I reach out and touch my mirror image craving a oneness

   but alas, he is just . . .


BY:  Terry Sako

The bluish silver divider used on this webpage was found on