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Order this writing in the book Study in Black the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-April 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

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I’m Only a Boy

Ken Williams

I was young then
too young—too innocent.
Mere months ago,
A lifetime ago.

Playing
Running
Laughing
Youth’s heyday,
in the green rice fields,
next to my father’s yellow straw house.

Till that morning,
that crystalline morning
with the impossibly blue skies.
When the silver tubes,
shinny,
reflecting harsh sunlight,
tumbling end-over-end
burst out of the skies.
Engulfing me,
devouring me
with blazing Dragon Fire
in so pretty colors,
the colors of hell.

No longer do I run,
Skip,
Play,
Laugh.

No longer,
can I.
Crippled like the ancient ones
in the old village, bent.
My steps hobbled,
but not like them
not by age, instead.
Burns.
Scars.
Fleshed melted onto flesh.

Napalm burned more
than just flesh that morning.
It boiled innocence
from my soul.

The heat...
it was unbearable.
Flames from hell,
of hell.
What I became,
men’s inhumanity to men.
Also us,
Children.

I cried then,
no longer now.
Mouth twisted in Munch’s scream.
Goya’s history book
stamped onto my body.
Smothers my screams.

Honor the warriors?
both sides?
Ribbons
Medals
Parades.
But what about us?
We count not?

Collateral damage is—
collateral,
Easily ignored.
Easier forgotten.

Pushed under rugs,
Buried by glory.
Casualty of patriotism gone mad.

Do our scars hinder post PTSD?
Our deformities scare the innocent?
And guilty alike?
Eyes averted
because we repulse?
Or to protect souls
innocent only by indifference?

I’ll favor my crocked arm,
avoid mirrors,
drag my leg,
down dusty paths,
till life’s path mercifully
ends.
Life as a living hell,
merely the cost of war.

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