Trotting Off, Polo?

Normally I close my eyes,

screaming in defeat.

I am not the age of Five,

nor Four, or Eight, I sage!

Why must I be surprised,

every night I've lived.

Don't I ever catch a break?

My life, my mind, a shiv?

Do these nightmares just require,

the Fear, the gasping air?

I cannot catch my breath sometimes,

the panic wrecks it there.

 I wonder if my origin spot,

ever feels this way?

Or do they just turn their backs,

on the coldest day?

Can I dump these memories,

of Old in Ancient, weight?

What happened to me in my life,

that my mind repeats the strife.

I wish that Blunt could be here too,

singing songs in person; Tune,

to take away the Fear.

Does the family of all this rot,

that fills my mind a lot.

Ever think that what they've done,

or do they Church and trot.

The Polo player needs to know,

that mallets are for me to sew,

the truth of the galloping horse.

They keep my mind on coarse.

I heard of the Churchill Affair,

as family business needs no repair.

Collecting money on the backs,

of the ones who worked the track,

and lost their lives out, Dare!

Suicide did more than I,

I miss my friend, I missed the sign.

He hung himself out there.

I wondered how he lived in fear,

I now know more and I must tear.

We shared the nightmares,

we shared the dreams,

we played some baseball,

and other things.

We passed the time,

when we were; bind!

A child like resist.

What good was all of this we did,

if in the end we can't survive,

the guys, the men, the womens thighs,

the Trauma of our lives.

Karen A. Placek
4/28/2011