Piling on Stones

On a bright September morning,
my laughter turned to ashes and my dancing turned to flames.
I dug a grave seven stories deep, and I filled it
with blood and bones and memories.

And now I'm piling stones,
from an Afghan Winter and a Baghdad Spring.
I'm piling on stones
with every butcher's now-stilled heart,
every bastard's dying gasp,
every twisted sermon from the now-silent lips of the damned.

I'm piling on stones,
with every tyrant thrown down,
every enemy overcome,
until it stretches a thousand feet
into the sky.

I'm piling on stones for every dream,
and every memory
and every moment of childhood and innocence lost,
for every mother and father never coming home,
for every daughter and son never calling.

I'm piling on stones,
a thousand feet into the sky,
until I can sleep again
in silence.