Homecoming

This place was home,
He knew its roads well
He found it hard to unwind
After leaving its dusty trails.
Tormented with dreams
Of his time spent in hell
It’s all he speaks
When he tells his tales.

They burn in the flames
Faces, not names
Playing sick little games
With their precious remains
While others got locked in a cell

And where was he?

Strong enough to survive
Perhaps lucky
He was still alive,
Somewhere drowning in beer
His fourth or so today
If he were so lucky,
Why doesn’t he feel that way?
Should he have died in that place,
That land he called hell?
Over there was nothing,
This was the real prison cell.

A wounded man with no name
Broken, alone and ashamed,
Looking to place the blame
With hands, blood stained.
Living a nightmare,
All to real…

And a medal on his chest!

Was that all he had left?
Surely he had to know
More than that remained,
He calls for another drink,
Trying to drown his pain,
In a place called home
My how things have changed…



J.A. Wine

A Pile of Sand

It was night again
Just you, by yourself
And a pile of sand
That was once your heart,
Now residing in your hands.
So fine are the grains
Through your fingers they ran
Uncountable pieces,
Of the silty sand.
Most of it lost
To the strong blowing winds,
Landing wherever it may
Or back through the air again.
You sit without hope
Living with a heart, that was
Broken so often
It turned to dust
Neglected so much
It began to rust,
That still craved love
But knew only lust
It’s common sense
Replaced,
With a naïve trust.
So futile is a love
That can’t possibly fill
Much like a placebo
Pretending to be a pill
And loneliness?
An inevitable fate
Emptiness a flame.
Slowly burning to hate
Not for another but for yourself,
Afraid of the night
That alone time with yourself.
Those parades of tears
And your pile of sand
That was once your heart
Now residing in your hands
It blows in the wind
Through your fingers
And out of your hands,
Exactly how does one mend
A pile of sand?

J.A. Wine