War is a War Crime

Once wars were fought with sticks and stones

to flog the flesh and batter bones

and conquer lands, defending thrones -

though gods provoke, not one atones. 

The multitude (by hordes beset

with battle-ax or bayonet)

braved blades, dyed red and dripping wet -

the stains were wiped with no regret.

When raining blood, the teardrops spill,

enough to drown the daffodil

that withers in the mourning chill -

who was it said 'thou shalt not kill'?

The mad machine's now mechanized,

torment and torture legalized,

blind barbarism globalized

and wrath of demons sanitized. 

Each rival's right (whichever side)

committing holy homicide 

in names of gods diversified -

like Cain and Abel fratricide.

Above, a Drone that terrifies -

a button's pushed, a missile flies

to rip apart, to vaporize

(defending life, they fantasize).

Dismembered victims everywhere,

most, non-combatants, unaware -

a lone survivor, solitaire,

unfolding hands, too late for prayer.

Beneath the dust, a baby lies

with mouth agape, with bleeding eyes,

arrayed in death that money buys -

though warriors watch, none empathize.

The media's impervious -

in truth they're ever devious

for fear that reason's dangerous,

find every question treasonous.

Through eyes lit up like rosy sores,

embedded scribes report on wars

with tales to line the cuspidors -

the Fourth Estate? A herd of w****s.

To paint the slaughter civilized,

objective news is sodomized - 

when foreign streets smoke, pulverized,

the body counts are minimized.

Big Berthas boomed in days of yore

but now the tanks spit spikes of Thor

and mortar shells like raindrops pour

upon the lands of Nevermore.

The grumble of a hand grenade

is drowned in claps of cannonade -

assorted charnel chunks lie flayed 

in battlefields where kids once played.

Somewhere a sniper's bullet flies,

somewhere a voiceless victim dies,

somewhere a famished orphan cries 

while weapons warble lullabies.

The bunker busters burst the sides

of dwellings where mankind resides 

and innocence in darkness hides -

the die is cast, but who decides?

Use cluster bombs and barrels too,

(crude critters in the wartime zoo),

to shred more souls than hitherto -

choose death en masse, avoid the queue!

The leaders lead (twelve steps behind),

enmeshed in intrigues, well enshrined -

yes, powers, business (so entwined)

pull twisted threads, ensnare mankind.

The mercenaries hack and maim

(god's creatures crippled, morally lame),

do beastly things that none will name -

well-paid for such, they feel no shame.

The napalm bombs and phosphorus

and ghastly weapons gaseous 

are scattered widely, bounteous -

behold the desert wilderness! 

Yes, Agent Orange burns slow and calm,

may leave behind a blazing palm

(or better yet, a molten mom

inside a hut)  in Vietnam.

And phosphorous… its flame so white,

exploding, falling through the night,

commemorates the Sacred Rite -

and babes in arms, thus blessed, ignite.

Cast chlorine, sarin or VX…

a lethal dose (or side effects

like blistered lungs) will serve to vex -

but death in war? No one objects…

Constructing A-bombs's arduous -

uranium, depleted thus,

can trash a tank with little fuss,

cause natal cankers, cancerous.

But doomsday warheads (dropped or thrown),

ignited, leave the sun outshone -

beneath a mass of melted stone

lies powdered ash, once flesh and bone.

When atoms split in bombs debased,

vast cities smolder, laid to waste,

a million sinless souls erased -

perhaps, one day, all life effaced.

You close your eyes but can't ignore

that body parts and bags of gore

are bursting through golgotha's door,

and strewn beyond the ocean's roar

like rotting fish that wash ashore.

 

Why can't we stop and end all war…

POSTSCRIPT

Regard the dreary death Arcade

of Armaments (a fruitful trade)

and tally up the millions made

by ghouls that raise a colonnade

of miles of missiles, weapons-grade,

in Armageddon's crazed parade,

and hide behind a masquerade

of lollypops and lemonade 

while planning new an escapade

for sending armies to invade

and loot far oil lands, unafraid

of misery and grief parlayed

until our final days cascade

into a hell no more delayed

by happenstance or luck outplayed

that leaves society decayed,

bombarded with a fusillade 

of lies upheld and truth betrayed

by pundits in the shifting shade,

and crises of the world clichéd

as sung in solemn serenade

by journalistic hacks that preyed

on wide-eyed folk in sham charade

that lulls to sleep with eyelids weighed

by tiny tears that disobeyed

to stay behind the barricade

and bathe the modern-day crusade

of war in cheers and accolade.

The bottom line? Just profits paid

for deadly sins that god forbade…