War has no meaning, I am often told,
By men who haven't fought them.

Those who have fought are the silent ones,
They rarely recount the horrors of violence,
The existential crises, and the exhaustion.

War is not purification, it is a subjugation of the notes of life
That seem to tie humanity together.
I have seen the weight of my burden, the mortar shells haunt me still,
My service pistol lies under my pillow every night, because habits die hard.

There isn't much sympathy, nobody understands the implication of duty in combat,
My medals are just silent pieces of shrapnel that seem to bleed with the souls
Of those men I could not bring back.
Where is the enemy, I wonder, who was he, the shooter the dark,
Or the suicide bomber, the ******? I wonder if he feels the same
As I do, duty comes with a weight that bears down on my spine,
And bends my spirit.