Jan G. Otterstrom F.

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Hurt confused he left, exhausted
life or death at his bidding
wandered from the battlefield
abandoned post, embraced new hope
clung to daisy chains, easy solutions
to his plight, chased by ghosts in a foggy night
battered, broken, stripped of all he owned
reputation, profession, bartered for a shuffle
illusive odds, until he came to an end
a fly banging against a glass sky
picked up in a dream, flown south
early morning haze of Chapultepec
volcanos then at Guatemala, stretch of jungle
‘til a high Central Valley, eleven degrees north
of the Equator, thousands of feet above sea level
he slid through time, back to his beginning
as his vision, awaking in a green village
loved by people unknown, Pont Villon
a campesino forested river glade
plátano and cacao, friends to his aid.

Jan G. Otterstrom F. 8/27/2013