Ghosts


By L. Vancil
Copyright © All rights reserved

Oh, brother I envy your slumber,
your peaceful sleep there in the ground
wrapped in death's sweet shroud of silence
beyond the pain that I've found

Yet, I wonder why I am so favor'd,
with hatred, darkness and pain
to live through all of those nightmares
again and again and again.

It's four-thirty-two in the morning,
while I'm sitting here wracking my brain
feeling so damn tired and frightened
feeling so lost to the pain.

Feeling the old pain of loosing,
all that I once held so dear
lost in death's senseless ranting
lost in an instant of fear.

Brother your ghost, it does haunt me.
For each of my living days,
must be penance for one minute of panic,
repayment for cowardly ways.

Cocainum sibilants

By L. Vancil
Copyright © All rights reserved

"I am your sweetest dream.
I will lift your spirits and energize your thoughts.
I will make your brain sing, your pulse race, you will seem to fly.
I can make colors brighter, tastes sweeter, sounds more intense.
I will make you feel powerful, strong, alive and vibrant.
I will let you see Heaven and then plunge you into, Hell."

"I am your sweetest nightmare.
I will rip the mask off of your sweet complacency and show you the rotting, worm-ridden corpse beneath.
I am death for your children, dishonor for your name, destruction for your home and damnation for your soul.
I will torture you with remorse, roast you over the slow fires of regret, and etch your brain in the corrosive juices of guilt.
You will beg for release in death and I will deny you.
Your existence will be pain, your life ashes, your hopes ruins and your loves dead.
Yet, still you will worship me."

A question

By L. Vancil
Copyright © All rights reserved

What is the estrange quality,
that takes a frightened man,
and in the midst of battle
makes him quiet stand?
When all the world 'round him,
is caught in violent fight.
His comrades die beside him.

What change fills face with light?
'twas unseen witness of God's plan?
Or thrill of victory?
What fills the heart and lights the face,
what feeling struggles free?

What is the one experience,
that moves the loosing man,
when all his world is crumbling,
to calm and quiet stand?

When friends despair around him,
what change fills heart with fight?
Whence comes determination,
to face a hopeless plight?

What hard, bright armor of the heart,
finds pleasure in the strife?
What unseen energy surrounds,
to light the torch of life?

Mourning rituals

By L. Vancil
Copyright © All rights reserved

The sun crackles and shouts from flower to flower.
Their fragrance shining on the wind and gleaming o'er the gathered stones.
The silence smells of morning and new turned earth.
Flags bite at the breeze and caress the light of morning.
Too proud to weep for heroes.
Polished stone and brass toss images to and fro in bright cross-fire,
and muffled drums sob a mother's loss.

Old soldiers dance,
with half-remembered strides in whirling romp with flags and sobbing drum,
for honor.
They know terror and bravery, anger, death and luck.
The fortunes of the draw.
Death picking straws.
They remember, "He not me."
and ask,
-WHY?!-

But no answer comes sliding down the wind,
or echoing down rows of polished stone.
No answer shatters floral concert,
or trips old soldiers in their dance.
No answer,
save,
God's laugh.

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