Authored: August 13, 2017

With boots on the ground
the drone ships in the air
Men and women dressed for combat
With death in their hands
Their leaders spoke of this being a war about freedom
And keeping their nation safe.

With nationalistic vigour and bloodshot eyes
They ran down the wet roadside towards the village
These soldiers were young, but trained in the art of death
Through the conditioning of fear and peer pressure
They all thought they were doing right.

But they were met by soldiers in the village
From another side, who also thought they were right
And both sides tore at each other first with bullets
Later of those who survived
Bloodied hand to hand combat.

Their leaders, oh their leaders sat back and watched
They had sent men and women to their deaths
To desire a love of country is one thing
To die for it because of a fear? Is empty rhetoric.

War is a great charade
Glory to the victor, but resentment builds
War creates a disparity within the human psyche
Young men and women come back changed
There is no glory to kill another person.

And as these two sets of soldiers fought
A sound bore down on them, and they stopped to watch
Missiles that changed into mushroom clouds
Making corpses of the living, burning it all
They are doomed liked wandering spirits.

We have assimilated violence
We have taken in and repeated the cliches
To justify war and war is carefully sanitised
The wounded, dead and crippled
float around the edges of our consciousness
The message they tell if you want to really hear,
would be too painful for us to hear.

We imbibe the myth of glory
that in combat become empty and meaningless
For the dead are someone's child, sister, brother....