Georg was an afterthought
Of a short metal round.
Which Pierced him in the ear,
Beside his holy crown.
“What luck,” he thought as the
Blood ran thick.  “Only half
Of this war I will hear—
Only half will exist.”
He stood half in the dark
Hearing only one side
Of the war.  He heard the
Cries of his enemy.
The tongue seemed forlorn,
But the message was one:
Befallen was no country,
No province had been won,
Not a yard would be gained,
For war is deaf, blind, and dumb.

The million dollar war, and a penniless soul
Become entrapped in an ephemeral state.
Reality is not his father’s cold brewery,
Reality is the burning, fermented sweat
Which singes his eyes.  “Salute” rang
The officer, as the crowd looked on.
Georg fell in line to salute his soul away
To a reality of misconstrued differences.
A moment of bombastic glory rang out in his ears,
As he began to carry what his father had bestowed on him.
He didn’t realize, or did not conceive,
The sound of the months following.
The bombs of the months following did not ring.
The bombs were quiet—
A silent brigade of destruction.

A young heart blisters raw with war,
And a young mind wonders nevermore.
A young man stands upon the hinge of glory,
And a young man fights his history.
A young body ails in the pouring rain,
And a young body weeps with cold estrange.
A young spirit is condemned to death,
As a young spirit bears the cross of the rest.