A Different Kind of War

A Different Kind of War

 

The Legends preach that there are things much worse than death- and I, for what I am, tend to agree with them.

For Spartacus, it was enslavement at the Bloodthirsty hands of the sons of Rome-

For the Sacred Samurai- the loss of honor without proper protocol

For the great King Leonidas, it was the burning of Sparta for reason incomprehensible-

Thus instead he marched off into a more glorious doom

-another 300+ proudly in tow

Or such is the tale these centuries old.

 

 

And let us not forget any of those who fell throughout these squandered centuries- all for idealisms sake

Whether they wielded the plow, the pen, the bong or the gun

 

But for some of us, worse than death-

the guilt of having been left- spared, so some would say

To live some meaningless, less glorified end, forgotten

While our brethren fall for the cause of the flag they cherish-

Or simply anything greater than them-

 

 

For many of us, it’s the cries of our wounded, our soon to dead,

The ones we call brother, brothers in blood its said

 That Relentlessly haunt our beds, much as hell hounds on our scent

Until we’ve all but forgotten a peaceful nights rest

-Traded for the faces of ones you loved, and couldn’t help

Their screams ever echoing, just above the memories you shared-

And just below the blast or the round that took them,

Not even ‘the letter’, had survived that blast

 

For those of us who have walked through hell and back through it

-Once, twice, sometimes thrice to the mission-

Its not only the scars above mentioned that are worn by those who by curse or by miracle, returned, back here.

It’s the three rounds you took, from the shoulder, to leg,

That suddenly you feel- just as though you were right back in the moment, feeling helpless and a failure to your brothers-                staring some other dead man in the eyes.

Its all of that that eats at you, come day or come night.

All of that and it comes with so f*****g many forms and

Faces, of the question “Why…?”   

 

Then for some of us, its reaping the “benefits” of the blooded,

For far less of a wound, and by accident, no less-

quite short of the sacrifice Of those legends we’ve buried

- Or any of such honorary things cherished.

 

While we all signed the check marked ‘name your price,’

Some of those Legends, and the rest who’ve walked the trenches,

walk the streets hungry, (All the curses of the above mentioned)

- forgotten by the country that’s holding their checks hostage

And sleeping in boxes, aptly named “Coffin.”

And here we sit, collecting greater mens’ compensation-

The least the government could do-

 

All of this and so very much more can eat at the soul

Until it feels like any sort of grave would go over better

Than the curses we’re left with

here in the trenches  Of this ,different kind of war- 

yet another that none but the few can understand.

 

Especially not the trolls at the bar, the anarchists, and the liberal holier-than-those’ pointing-,

who know not what they speak- when they berate the selfless- the sacrificed

who bled for their rights to speak,

And who can no longer speak for themselves-

and Law forbid that we take our deadmens’ stand

for we’re still bound by our oath, to lower our fists 

 

And so we silently bury ourselves however we can, and mourn the other, glorious dead-

In a silence built upon the bones and the memories

Of those who fell with honor in our stead-

And the shame of knowing we’re not ever to be

Great Sons and Daughters like them.

 

 

Instead we will straggle behind their ghosts

-Haunting the streets alone, living a life

In trenches and foxholes of our own "

Until we find ourselves our own meaningless death

-So much for Destiny’s sweet glow

 

 

Three cheers for what we could have been

-    and another for all we should have seen

While instead we rot separate-

apart from the better men.

 

 

We March silent through darkness, through A Different Kind of War

So much for ‘No Man Left Behind’

We wander, lost, searching for something to call ourselves

Or just somewhere to call home, as this place in no longer familiar