Yelling At The Wind
Author: Chris G Vaillancourt


What shall I cry?
The faded emblems of empire lie
like tattered flags around me.
I pick them up and try to remember
the glories they represented.
They do not bring anything to me.
Empty colours of material that
once belonged to names long
ignored. Soldiers and sailors
prancing like stallions in their
uniforms. Is this how reality
stinks when it dies? Who can
even name the pieces of dirt they
shed blood for? Who still honours
the Kings and Prime Ministers
who spoke so highly of sacrifice?
Why is the sacrifice always in blood?
What shall I see?
My eyes are clouded with the illusions
they've been supplied. Visions of
titles and positions that are only
real in the minds of the decieved.

Don't we dance so well together?
Don't we disagree in such high estate?

What is the point of yelling at the wind
when it blows no matter what I say?


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