O disheveled souls sent out to butcher spirits,
Sightless boys placed down in suffering’s arid grasp,
Do not go out unaided in this churning despair
With its tall and fickle beast slung over your shoulder,
Its eyes within you ill equipped at channeling peace.
The blood, reaching high enough, will sting your eyes
And your host will move you in front of dread
Directing you toward a manacled liberty unaware,
Its love set to rip the flesh that holds your frown,
Prepared to gleefully declare that peace is dead.
The beast has its place, I suppose.
War.
Rattling war.
Without end.
What has been done.
The carnage laid siege to the cities
The way monstrous death inhales,
Corpses growing into the soil like freshly sown seeds
With the enthusiasm of young men.
That is the thing that is most troubling.
The eagerness, the unbridled pleasure.
The significance of this
May well be our ruin.
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
H/T to The Fanonite for the video "Home of the Brave"
Rolling along "K"...
