The Beautiful Sin

 At shot one I saw a man three rows up 
who looked he had lost a friend. 
I respected him,
but pitied the man lying dead.
I saluted him,
but mourned the one lie still. 

At shot fourteen he up and left,
at twenty one so did I. 
as I met him in the parking lot, 
I saw only jealousy in his eyes.
Next I saw a scar on his bared arm,
and asked, “Shrapnel wound?” 
He smiled, chuckled, and then replied, 
“No, removed tattoo.”

Then he climbed into an old junk car, 
blood still trickling from a festering wound.
And pushed off up the highway, 
reaping no rewards from 
what he fought so hard to do. 
For the man who lay behind me,
the war has long since ended. 
For the man who drove off ahead of me, 
the battle was never over. 

That night I watched the late issue news, 
saw a story of a lone man dead. 
Hung by the neck with some old barbed wire,
done by his own trained hand. 
They nearly had him identified, 
but there was one small distress. 
There was once an identifying mark, 
across his arm and across his chest. 
But now there were only scars where before, 
there had been a single word in red letters:

Hope. 

Reviews

[Jennifer Marie Theresa ..]

Very powerful...is it about a war veteran? This piece has great imagery and power to it. The characters come alive and make you feel for them. Amazing piece.

[Jade]

Great. A fine, emotional jolt. I reread it several times, something I don't normally do. I wanted to get every nuance, every speck of your words. I wanted to feel it under my skin.

Thank you.

Jade