Sons of the flag, when they finally come home,
They fought so hard, they didn’t fight alone.
The parade has marched, the confetti is gone,
The journey was honored, but the wounds live on.
The silence of peace, the echoes of war,
Each one cries out like a rudderless oar.
Memories sit silent on a crust of dark skin,
Burning outside, burning within.
The demons they battle, siphoning their rage,
Come out like mad words on an old poet’s page.
They never know the day, they’ll explode like fire,
To those they love, to those uninspired.
Our promise to you is as simple as this:
We’ll fight for you now, as you did for us then.
So when you’re home and the chaos reigns,
We’ll do our best to douse the wild flames.
Survivors will find the skin that can graft,
And then on the inside, the soul it can laugh.
The slow round of healing has only just begun,
For the Sons of the Flag – one . . . by . . . one.