Torn

My most political poem to date..

Courtesy of NY Times

Bombs explode,
catapulting reality into
more than it was,
imbuing this modest
screen with divine capacity
to implausibly broadcast 
glimpses of you.

Your sandy brown hair, 
ruffling in the breeze.
Your sharp hazel eyes, 
a beacon in this nightmare.
This never ending war.

Until your eyes go black, there’s hope
buried deep in my chest.
With it, strength.

But when will it end?
The wait forces me down
like forged steal to my head,
stinging these bitter tears
and calloused fingers.

Every televised second of 
assault rifle fire renders me still,
frozen in certainty that you’re dead;
jagged shrapnel ripping you apart,
your likeness unrecognizable.
Lastly, your hazel eyes are cloudy, 
turned charcoal black.

War covets and steals,
mindlessly sacrificing the sacred,
repeating its grotesque process with ease.
And for what purpose?
This carnage gets us nowhere.
When will this end?

When will you come home to me?
Come home to me now,
I'm begging you
please. Please.
You're not dead, I know that, feel that.
Your eyes shine bright
in my dreams every night.