By Andrew Scott

Fog of War

In the dense fog of war
there is a clear vision
of messages being returned.

The fog demonstrates the glory
of a majestic soldier
caring for all around,
the injured and weak.

War rooms are crystal clean,
full of medaled gladiators
plans for the enhancement
of all people’s lives.

The commander dresses regal
for the supporters to see,
to ensure their faith and confidence.

When the days get long
the fog starts to diminish
to clear away the truth.

Soldiers may be in mud or blood,
bodies covered in either,
theirs or another.
Bewildered or confused.

Rooms are full of plans
of mass destruction.
Prints of lands to be conquered
for their own personal gain.

Commander of Thief
bunkered down, hidden away,
Fear lining his eyes
waiting for the fight back.

Lookers-on see through
the dense fog for the truth.
Uncontrolled chaos,
crying tears, terrified.

Glory is never found
in the fog of war.

Heroin Highway

Every day, I sit in my own little kingdom.
This little stretch of road.
Get plenty of visitors all the time.
People of all kinds, looking for the fix.
Driving through this Heroin Highway.

There are husbands and wives
coming to me, hiding it from each other.
I probably know more
about their lives than they do.

New students trying hard to fit in.
First time away from home,
trying to experience the new world
from the high of the Heroin Highway.

All I must do is sit here.
Have a beat-up, old chair
that these folks walk up to.
They tell me their stories
however, I honestly do not care
as long as they have the money.

People’s habits bring them to me.
Their home or work life,
good or bad atmosphere.
It has provided loyal customers
here in my stoop
supplying the Heroin Highway

See The Demon Disguise

To everyone outside
you are the pillar of your household.
Standing tall, providing guidance.
Friendly waves to the neighbours.
Everything neat, immaculate.
You believe no one sees the truth.
By looking at you, the disguise shows.
See the fear in the spouse and child,
the controlled fear of the beast
that is only present behind a closed door.
It makes you feel like a man.
You believe no one sees.
I can see through the disguise,
The fangs you bare.

You dress daily in your noble uniform.
Pleasant greetings to your co-workers
as they admire your dedication
to the people and the law.
Making the community
feel good and safe
until the dead of night
when you think
no one can see the horns
under your uniform’s cap.
The crimes that you commit
against the ones
who needs the protection
for your own greedy needs.
I see you from afar
right through your transparent demon disguise.

You provide a comforting shoulder
to those all around you
when there is emotional pain.
A trusted advisor with a gentle smile
until the lights go down.
When you believe
no one can see,
your eyes go black.
Your whispers of comfort
lead the one in need
to give away for your benefit
without seeing your true intentions.
You think no one can see
the glowing demon disguises
that, from afar, I can see.

Arrogance is what
makes you think
no one sees your intent.
I can smell and see
though you cannot see or feel me.
Your aura seeps into my fingertips.
Makes my body shake.
The true evil in you,
that you try to hide,
In the all-seeing demon’s disguise.

Ghost Still Alive

I am a ghost that is still alive,
roaming this earth, year after year.
Mean no harm to most.
Those that are expecting it
know who they are.

I am an Irish immigrant
that brought the wife and family
to harvest a new plot of farm land.
The community looked down on our ways
back in the nineteenth century,
There were times that we were a little boisterous
after a few drinks in the town pub.
The family never backed down
however there were burnings of barns
and homes that we were accused of.
None of this was proven to be us.
One night, murderers came
and torched us in our sleep.
To seek revenge on the killers and their legacy
this ghost haunts and is still alive.

I am a little child,
born to the land
with my Indigenous family.
I was taken away,
sent to a new school,
abused, beaten in hopes
I would change my given culture.
So many of us were
until our bodies gave out.
The church thought they would bury
and forget my existence.
Many decades later I raised
to haunt the church that buried me.
The cries from the alive for retribution
orchestrated by this ghost that is still alive.

I am a husband and father
to a beautiful wife and four children.
We were all happy and proud
until my heart seized prematurely,
leaving before my time.
After a time of sadness, another moved in.
Tried to replace my family love,
moving ornaments and symbols
to hide my memory away.
Trying to get the complete love
but in the walls and emotions
this ghost still lives.

I am the ghost that is still live,
roaming this earth, year after year.
Mean no harm to most.
Those that are expecting it
know who they are.

Andrew Scott is a native of Fredericton, NB. During his time as an active poet, Andrew Scott has taken the time to speak in front of a classrooms, judge poetry competitions as well as be published worldwide in such publications as The Art of Being Human, Battered Shadows and The Broken Ones. His books, Snake With A Flower, The Phoenix Has Risen, The Path, The Storm Is Coming and Through My Eyes are available now.

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