I traverse this earth,
treading upon the shells of broken souls,
like the bleached skulls of dead warriors,
for the world is strewn with loss and death,
forced failure bereft of meaning,
handed down by those of political persuasion,
removed from battle yet theirs the gain.
So many the loss and suffering
of the battlefield, the poignant aftermath,
where life will never be the same,
death a constant refrain, in peace or war,
and they the fodder of politics,
lost limbs and minds never restored,
find life at all unmanageable.
And what help have they,
the fodder of political war: a medal,
a pat of the back for a hero,
just another foot soldier maimed
and silenced by horror,
who cannot and will never find peace,
nothing to stave the memories.
One by one they suicide,
no place is comfort, the battle continues in mind,
blood and limbs flying, testifying the atrocities,
and what life can follow that,
where a dropped box is a bullet flying,
and sensors drowned in response,
finds them flat upon the floor, in a supermarket.
No help comes,
for the lines are incomprehensible,
as no-one copes and governments not set up
for such fallen pride, loose minds and confusion,
sleepless nights and delusions,
just the propagation of mindless war,
and the suffering after the score.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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