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.