Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
Fools blather about the glory of the fight
And don’t hear the mothers crying at night.
The wives of those marauders on the roam
Cry because their husbands can’t come home.
The children of these battle-addicted men
Go away, eyes ashine, never to return again.
And still the moneyed few, urge on toward
Yet those godlings never pick up a sword.

Mandates from government palaces abound
But not as many as the dead on the ground.
People are expendable to the military,
There are no pensions in the cemetery.
It’s all about honor they tell the press.
Leaving someone else to clean the mess.

Fight for liberty and freedom, they say.
They really mean die for them every day.
It’s all about profit and always was.
It’s that and no more noble cause
When a nation not being attacked
Falsely claims they’re striking back.
Then goes on to leave thousands dead
So they can wear a crown upon their head.

If you see no words of shame in this
Then you have found what is amiss.
These people are not motivated by grace.
They have the look of evil upon their face.
They already own most of what is here
But they keep a running tally all year.
As too much is not enough they crave,
Even if that puts us all in our grave.
Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
Does anything ever mute
The sound of dying men’s screams
Who volunteered to defend
The righteous demands of greedy dreams?
The clouds roll quietly in
And who can tell if it is mist or smoke?
So, this pile of dead humans;
Are they enemies or a sick man’s joke?

Did they know what they were
When they piled into the planes and cars?
Did they have any idea why
They were ordered to march and fly so far?
Were they told they were fighting
For one thing when it was really another?
Were the coerced into uniform
By neighbors, teachers, fathers and mothers?

And when smoke clears each time
Do those that came after them to battle
Find some still lie there dying
So they can listen to the death rattle
Of one more brother or sister
Dying in the mud on their back
From a war that was started
When their nation was never attacked?

Glory and pride are words
That can be used to cover over lies
Like bandages over wounds.
But they don’t mute the mortal cries
Of those who died feeling tricked
About not defending freedom
But for money for the hand-picked.

— The End —