Losses

I have the future in mind.
I talk to the prophets at night,
melting into the guitar music
hanging on to every white streak
across the sky that could be
a jet's.
How many white nicks in my
fingernails are there? Do I lie?

Do you fear me,
asking for answers to the most
difficult questions in the world?
Let's calypso into the midnight's
motion, hoarding the late pen's notes
dreaming of the eternal side
of surviving losses.

When the wind takes on a
strange breeze,
when the fans of political stylettos
analyze the facts of loss
in their wallpapered handsome office
rooms of business
in so many skyscrapers, eyes
glued to the methods of
solving war,
reaching out to resist
the sad acts of destruction
with measures of waiting for
the right time to see the light
out of a foggy distance,
then
         yes
there is a need for making giant leaps
to overtake the madness in the
torn apart world of war.
And,
         yes
we must protect the innocent at all
cost.

I speak of my small space
in a mirrored vacuum of sad confusion.
I am frightened of voicing an opinion
and forcing the issue,
but for me to write about war without a
trace of mixed emotions would not be me.
I have hated other wars, clamouring
in political circles amongst city folk.
It is my own business.
Days of sweet remorse, for loving the
kind of life that enriches the mind
a little too much,
makes me graze over faces of
fragile existences,
those unsure of how a fighting man accepts
the journeys of men and women who do not
want to be there, instead holding
guns motioned for the right time
to kill, and
         yes
so very important for a hero's
score to follow, letting us know
that there can be no other way,
and that "they will be there for the
duration".

Somehow,
there is a child shivering in the
windstorm in a deserted dirt alley,
stepping under an alcove to get
out of the rain,
knowing not what he will do next.

Won't the artist I know,
please paint his free strokes
of sad blue shades of expression
for a world of those that share
sympathies over losses?