An old soldier sits alone,
smoke rolling from his nostrils,
a tepid dragon.
He gazes vacantly at his sword,
at the blood on his hands.
It all seemed so far away,
when he was there.
It's easier to see,
after the dust has settled.
We were never heroes.
No.
Just so many pieces in a game too vast for us to behold.
Our sacrifice,
was calculated from the start.
They dubbed us expendable.
They forged monsters,
out of boys.
Then they sent us home with no purpose.
Warriors with no war.
Old Soldiers.
Just so many broken men,
with bloodied hands.