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.
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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