there he stood, at the beginning of the end,
next to a flag of vapor, sailing in the wind,
his breath pushing smoke into heavy sighs to fall,
like the old army cigarettes, stale inside the wall.
the ghosts of modern men, frozen in cement,
pistols packed with permanent peace and pavement.
all is still on this cold day in Washington.
the war has stopped.
no politician or fabricated purpose
could move them all to kill each other now.
there are no more lies about pride,
noone to will them all to die,
noone to divide them all into sides,
to put them into boxes inside their minds,
noone to decide who has lost, or who has won,
out of so many, they are left with just one.
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