Armchair Soldiers

Green plastic soldiers,

At the ready, on their guard,

Atop the red, dusty armchair.

A darkened afghan lay across its back.

(Stained by the blood

Of my Grandma’s fingertips)

I marched them to a drum

I only heard in my head.

 

With noises of bombs and planes overhead

The soldiers on the chair did what I said

 

Too often they would fall

Into the Empire Graveyard.

But I'd pick them back up.

And off to war they'd go again.

 

I had yet reached my father’s lap,

Couldn’t yet peer out the windows.

I knew my Pathways of Desire,

But it was easier for me to stay indoors.



Comments:
 
Trenchtownrock   Trenchtownrock wrote
on 8/24/2009 11:41:19 AM
Love the title and the poem itself is very strong..good work on this piece.

JumpsCurbs
Poetry
Free Verse
writing JumpsCurbs
I want to hear everyone's comments, good and bad (but always constructive), on my poetry. Any and all advice is greatly appreciated! No need to sugar coat it.
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