I Remember the Days too Well

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

The sound of muted voices echo in my mind.

Faded reflections of faces and gazes stir the hollows of my soul.

I REMEMBER THE DAYS TOO WELL

By Al Garcia

The sound of muted voices echo in my mind.

Faded reflections of faces and gazes stir the hollows of my soul.

And memories rile the muddied and blurry musings of a young man’s brush with destiny and the testament to the worst of human savagery.

It was over there.  Over there, where young men fought, and died, and cried.  Alone.  Afraid to let the tears expose their fear, and betray the frail and brittle potency that camouflaged the innocence that laid behind their beating heart. 

Boys becoming men, before they had a chance to feel the strength or sense the wisdom that comes with having lived or having known the days of wine and roses.  War is seeing the innocence of youth, dying like an unplucked perfect rose, dangling from a shattered and broken stem, wilting and shriveling before anyone can see and appreciate its beauty or enjoy its wonderous fragrance and exquisiteness. 

Too many fields of war, littered with perfect roses, strewed like discarded or unwanted remnants of untended souls and smothered dreams.  But that only happened over there.  Over there, where the agony and the torture of the body, mind and soul could be left to fade into the folds of time, and to be obscured by the heart’s denial of the obscenity of our acceptance. 

I cannot celebrate, nor can I revel or acclaim the atrocity that is war, nor the devastation left behind.  I do not need monuments or statutes, or celebrated days, to remind me of those that were left behind in desolate and abandoned fields, deserts, jungles and sandy beaches.  For me, monuments and statutes only add insult to injury – adding legitimacy and acceptability to human sacrifice for the sake of ego and treasure.  For me, and many others, I remember the days too well.

I still hear the sound of muted voices echo in my mind.

I can see the faded reflections of faces and gazes stir the hollows of my soul.

And memories still rile the muddied and blurry musings of my youthful brush with destiny and the testament to the worst of human savagery.

It was over there.  Over there, where young men fought, and died, and cried.

It was over there, where I grew up too fast to enjoy the blossoming of the perfect rose, and to appreciate its beauty and its splendor in full bloom. 

And it was over there, where I left so much of who I used to be, and what I once believed.  No reason to celebrate or elaborate.  Just another day to remember the days, the faces, the voices, and the dreams once shared, that never came to be.

All because, so much was left, over there . . . so many places, so many wars . . .


Submitted: May 29, 2021

© Copyright 2021 A.Garcia. All rights reserved.

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