Angels Are Fighting



Never told us what home was like. . .

Angels are fighting, distressed and alarmed
we are falling apart – a life now in shambles

no one to hug – or kiss us hello,
our home is foreclosed, my job it was filled –
my car was sold because  someone needs drugs –

Angels are fighting – inside.

We searched in the alley for a warm place to sleep,
still no pillows to lay on, or crisp clean sheets –
bank account closed – no one knows where we live.

Angels are fighting inside of my head.

A kind lady she gave me a freshly picked apple –
and a sweater she had hanging over her back – 

“My husband’s, he fought with angels too.”

I told the kind lady, “My body can’t breathe – so
different here where I once belonged –
no house, no job, no family or friend.”

People stare as I sit on cold concrete –
as they carry their coffee – in a fancy cup –
“Make mine small – just plain,”  I laugh.

I stare through windows at those inside,
while chewing on muffins or texting a friend –
a stranger passed, I mumble, “I’m not

giving up, it wasn’t me – I returned to a mess.”

No jobs in the paper; a counter girl at the 
food mart said,  “You gotta get a computer – instead.”

The angels are fighting and no one complains. 

What happened to you, our home, and our kids?
We gave to our country – they took all we owned,

 shattered our lives while we thought we were brave.

The angels are laughing, and flying away.

Here I lay in the moonlight – shed tears 
for my shadow – where did you go –
was I gone too long?
Never asked to go, nor leave you or the kids.
Never thought we would end up like this.

From lamp post to corkscrew us vets stare at the moon –
count stars in the evening and pennies at noon.

Some reach without knowing to catch light
in their life – flashes of color of sand in their

Some kick stones – when metal
hits the bottom of a can –
beggars we are – as we count our coins.

Some of us stare – we have nothing to do –
Some of us cry  – we lost all of our pride.

We were the fighters – those who were brave
not knowing that home would be hell, and
those angels have fled.

The angels were fighting to keep us sane.

It’s hard to believe we were treated like humans
who killed a stranger laying dead in the sand.
So the Veteran is home – we praised all the angels –

then we stepped off the plane and our lives
were torn like the bodies we left.

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Angie's Diary