Agent Orange

Order he embraced with open arms
And handcuffs.
He sought clarity, precision.
He minced no words.
He did what he did because it was right
And good.
Because he could.

When he loved, he loved with purpose
He romanced financier's wives
General's daughters.
Once more, sans feeling
He was, after all, a true professional.

The ebbflow of empires
Of seasons in all splendor and colour
Were but dates to be crossed
Stamped and banished to history
Presidents dispatched. Bombs delivered
Or defused. Cities towering from rubble
Or leveled.
Economies scaled, or broken.

You have no heart. No soul.
Said a lover, deep in twilight's black hours
He left.
On the Parisienne streets, not a soul
The stars hooded from view
He wandered the city lemon-sewer scented sidealleys
Til rose the blue before dawn.
Another day.
Another date.

Stowaway, soul refugee.
Southwest, an airbus flew him
To an expanse of deserts.
New Empires.
New Order.
New histories to be forged.
Pawn of governments, fate
Jealous politics
Slink into the wastes of brittle sand
Free of memory, or history
His soul aglow
In a tinderbox locked
Left by his bedside
revolver.

© Wenee Yap