Launched by strains of Auld Lang Syne
Leaving all that he had known
For love of far greater purpose
Glory! Ambition! The throne!

The code of morality
Death to our enemy
But don’t ask why
Life to our legacy
But don’t ask why

The flags wave highest
That most proudly sends their sons to war
Waving at the end of decency
Or is it the beginning that we fight for

For what is decency
Except to spare the life of the enemy
Yet that is not our charge
It is not to show mercy or remedy
Instead it is to march triumphantly
Never counting the dead
Only the medals pinned to a chest
Only the horrors lining his head

And though exhorted to turn the other cheek
Forgiveness is only a bent knee on a rug
He has received his pardon on this earth
For all that WILL be done before his grave is dug

But not for bats disrupted by gunfire
With shadows forming lattice lace upon rocks for the sacrament
But the sands once shifted by God’s breath
Is now ink made holy by the holder of the parchment

What coward would accept condemnation
Rather than death by enemy sword, sharpened
By the exceptionalism of old men
Whose achievements canonized but burdened
In their own minds
Forgetful as they grow into legend
Excepting of their own courage
In the stories they imagined

Giving white feathers but not for honor
To those who plant flowers in rifles
Flowers loved by Kings and Queens
Who smell them while reading lifeless bibles

Those loved by their mothers
Faceless as they march
The song of glory speaking of freedom
While they pass the closing doors of the arc
Their wives would rather weep tears of pride
Than of tears of shame
But what difference to his soul
Rising for what purpose or game?

To honor his family or his God?

Going down with the ship
Accepting the bullet from the front
Falling not upon his sword but upon that of the savage
For that is how to die like we want
There is no reason that must be validated
Victory or defeat
He gave his life without question
And now his name is on a street

But still, the sun rises again
Callously living without purpose
For no man can touch its soul
No sword can plunder its surface
No words can destroy its pride
No tragedy can darken its rays
No, it is the earth that must rise and set
Living waiting until the end of days

And the coward drew small comfort from this
Knowing nature is an idle spectator
As is a flame at the end of a spear
A fire that only kills and not worth dying for

But a spear in the hand of a subject
Serves only its King
While the flower he picks prepares to die
Dishonorable and in shame
For though they may were once beauty
It is only to mark the graves
And line the path of solemn remembrance
For those who hope that God saves