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Sitting in mute grief
at midnight's table,
trying to forget
things long past,
and best forgotten,
on the tracks
of yesterday.

Trying to comprehend
some sensible pattern
in the tattered fabric
waving accusingly
and just out of reach,
in the mind's convolution
of yesterday.

Trying to remember
to forget
the tragic face
of humanity,
maggot riddled ideals,
urging us on
to struggle with the whore
of yesterday's war.

Exhausting all the possibilities
of morality posing as democracy,
which in the end
lies stripped naked,
and with wanton lust
pulling down a generation
of young men to die
in the awful embrace
of yesterday's lie.

Bright lights and dreadful sound,
fire-flash orgasm
and the lovers of war,
blue-lipped and cold,
in mounds lie spent
upon cruel thighs,
of yesterday.

John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR


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