Belgium, 1920

Broken glass littered the streets, Caked over with scarlet syrup, Powdered with cascading snow, And indigent spirits. Damprey radiated its war torn past. It was not the place, To be an artisan, To raise a family, To pray for God. It was only filled with jagged shrapnel, And calloused dreams. We side stepped our problems, Walking among the sulfur stained trees, And during our pilgrimage to Etat, Thinking “heel, toe, heel, toe,” Epiphany struck With thunderous iron, Static chains, Black smoke, And a single guiding light. I ceased four tickets, And coughed in the warmth of the cabin, Following land to ice, Toward the bitter snows of Antwerp. Here, ships rolled over the white mists, Giving us an entrance into prosperity, yet drowning our sorrows. My one eyed angel, The heir to my legacy, Waved from the shore, Showing no smile, No tears, No grief, Only his innocence. It is better for three than none, To gaze at Liberty’s flame, To see a better tomorrow, To forget the past; So, I look toward the bow, And into the empty seas ahead.