'The Dance Of The Crane-Fly.'

The old soldier stood on the threshold,
The youths around him pushed and teased.
He stood his ground,
Shouting out how he had fought for his freedom,
Their freedom.
A freedom of choice
and a right to think for themselves.
He told them
��War amongst all other things
can show you how good a deal
the joker has dealt you.
But when the politician calls out your lottery number,
smashes your rose-tinted glasses
and then marches you blind into no-man�s land.
It is then you realise that the rent on the boating lake
has expired and you await for the bullet with situation vacant
embossed upon its cold shell.��
The old soldier to was deluded.

He was unaware that the war hadn�t really stopped,
It was still festering in the sewers.
Slowly generating into something so deadly and so ferocious that
the small black box of the missing flight was just a brief reminder.
Such a small, silent reminder.
That even a lost thought can have catastrophic effects.
Because in this war; there are no prisoners and no victories,
Causing a case for conflict
and so the computer can scream out
in satirical laughter...GAME OVER.
But in their small mindedness and lack of paramounts,
The youths just laughed and left,
Unaware that in the future; they too
would have to learn the dance of the crane-fly.
Stepping out as a corpse
to pirouette solo out on the wire
whilst submerged in the depression
of the floodlight labelled cross-fire.