Orange Albatross

He walked along decay and the sweet smell
of Agent Orange
With a heavy gun on his back.
A bald jungle with nothing left
But dying roots
Fresh blood on toxic soil.
His unborn children would someday reflect
This lonely wasteland with their own scarred flesh
Looking up at him with eyes of lead.
Yet little souls rise despite flaws of command.
Their whispers move quiet and steady
Across years of time, spinning
Their pain into song.

-Christne Greyson