I suspect, that after my adventures are done

and my ambition is satisfied,

and my desire for things beyond myself

is complete

I will always be trying to get home.

The river snakes through the canyon

where the sun rises between the clouds

and blinks through the trees,

like some mysterious green giant

with magic in its yellow eyes

and leaves in its autumn hair.

I buried my memories there

like treasure, near the roots

of that big brute,

and one day,

I will dig them up again.

I am a child, forced to live in this big body

forced into work

forced to wage war


until I become an old man.

There are some adults

who want to remain adults

because they enjoy the power of professional life

but I prefer the magic

at the tail ends—

like a tadpole or a butterfly

the sunrise

with its golden promise

and the sunset—full of fire,

as it fades into darkness.

It’s true—we might die before then

and in the midst of chaos

in the uncertainty of defeat

in the possibility of cowardice

we live on.

How we live

is more important than death.

The enemy will see you

and not want to kill you

because of the style

you possess.

Style—is more than something we put on

it’s a way of doing and being done.

Still—if I die,

I want to die well-dressed.

I want to die with my smile on

I want to die commanding troops in battle

not because I was forced

but because

it’s my destiny

and my grave

above ground

will be a testament

to those who wish to live.

One thought on “Going Home in Style

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