An old man in an empty house, in a hateful world, no family pictures on the wall, no one to hold. No warmth, no mail, just time to kill and a battle raging on in a troubled mind. He tries to hide from what he did, from what they made him do. But when you’re young and brave, you’d do it too. And in the silence, one thought prevails, something he wished he’d said, wish he’d yelled. “This is not what we want, but what you left for us. We don’t fight in hate, in greed, in lust, but in inheritance. And I am not my father’s son, that blood is not in me. Won’t fight generational wars with poor ideology.” Old soul lay down and dream, rest your tired eyes and troubled mind. Home, can we preserve this life by dropping bombs on a foreign soil? Home, golden hills, fireflies in jars, troubled coasts that are stained, that are drenched in blood.