my poetry. OP.2

Since i'm a crazy chopin fan, ive adopted his Term "OPUS" for the various parts of this snapshot. my last composed poetry is titled "A Veteran's Lament"

"A Veteran's Trial"

The veteran slumped upon 

a couch, 25 years to wear.

a glass of liquor in his hand,

a radio by his side tuned to Handel.

He waited with morbid tension,

the curse of the dead awaits

its fulfillment...

he thought about his deeds,

a grim and nauseating walk down memory lane.

He remembered private Jim,
the 25 Asians he gunned down.

Thirteen of em kids, who were
playing with tin toys.
The rest going about their chores.

Expecting the birth of a child,
or perhaps a husband's home coming.

He twitched his hands,
the muscular clubs which had tasted blood.
He remembered Sergeant Jenkins Caloway,
Bombing the fields from 5 miles above.

only the devil who holds him captive 

knows the count.
the dead, they were, but reaping
the harvest of their labors.
of days watering and treading on manured soil.

He recalled the slugs wasted,
as the radio now tuned to Bach.
He envisioned Commander Delaney,
whose wave of a hand meant Genocide.

There was blood everywhere.
on the leaf blades that fed locusts
to the dust ridden road.
the red stains of massacre, embedded in the blocks of concrete
that once traced back to

the glorious country of Vietnam

But now, decades later,
The Charlatan became
the victim of something, That
which is immaterial. The veteran awaited

The curse of the dead.