To Make Your Country Proud

A Poem by Prometheus

bring our children home

They let them bleed like faucets for
One pale, poisoned breath,
Short but bloated sick with glory
Sick with sicker glory
--Such is War, the ever-pregnant wife of death.

From out her womb claws a cause
No nobler than hate. Shrieking
Like a devil's brood, it gorges
On our fear,
Like food,
And hungers for our souls.

This monster is a faceless thing, who's
Dragged the world's youth through mud
On land as wet as sea with blood,
Reeking strong of rot and vomit.
This demon robs us of our eyes to feast,
With fangs as big as knives, that burrow
Burning in our core--consuming lives,
Like fire would, with the simple, single word:

Traitor

And if this word does not relent, and if its
Power throttles me, then let the world understand
It's not my shaking, angry hand
That gunned their children down.

A different human being did,
Whose spirit has been killed,
By War's dark demon child,
A demon, strong and wild,

A demon, masked with one false name,
As empty as its heart. The name itself is
Venom, and it berates our mind to s**t.

And here it shrieks,
"You're a traitor
You're a traitor
You're a traitor

If you're not a Patriot."

© 2010 Prometheus

Author's Note

A little graphic, but so is war.

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NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..

graphic is what it needs to be when cracking open the rib shells of death as senseless array~
your write is a soul lesson that should replace history lessons which relate nothing but the rape of the pacifist by the greedy/zealot~
if one could get past the mindwashing and spirit twist outs of forcefed diatribe they would be crushed to see how all of it needless and the most senseless exhibits of death where young men and women are bled on a earth that birthed us all on common grounds~