Fear stained pants, zippers now stuck.
Salt ringed Kaki shirts, heavy sagging pockets.
Socks eaten by gritty dirt, toes cracked and black.
Fingers clutching this camera bleeding and raw.
Covering a war, clicking behind a lens instead of a scope.
With all these things they cope, war correspondent, I hope.
Since a young age, seeing Saigon’s Art-deco streets.
Green uniforms, cone hats, motorbikes, stories of nights pasts.
A war, my heart sought to find, to share of its grit, and bloody grime.
Languishing on the periphery, thinking it’s not going to be for me.
Planes slam into our lives, self righteous bigots, stealing Faith’s lights.
Crimson crosses in empty yards, children crying, dying, strangers, taking it hard.
Shattered dreams our reality it seems, no foreign lands to find the story for me.
Littered in my home streets, five courageous officers honored in deaths glory fleeting.
Here, between fanfare and fame, to my home the war came.
Writing nightly, others the same, of this endless battle of anger and shame.
A correspondent of war have I become, innumerable battles fought here without end.
Fear stains these soiled pants I wear, unlike generations before, here I shed my tear.
Fingers raw as hates words descend on this page, filling me with hopeless rage.
Then I recall, it is on this purpose my lot did fall, to share of heroes living and those that fall.
Beginning here, between our fear and fame, verses fill my heart with hates shame.
Between the battles and night, peace survives evils might.
For you this war I’ll cover, so you need not linger or over it hover.
War Correspondent am I, praying through the battle, these words will not die.
Life, liberty and the persist of happiness I claim, you, I pray do the same.