Our valor you reward with scars and dread.
The honors you bestow leave good men maimed.
Though back from battle, lauded with loud cheer,
the din of combat rings on in the head
of each who’s seen things better left unnamed
that slaughtered friends and comrades they held dear.
Your vultures spread their wings in sun to dry
the stench of carrion from bloody death
picked over, after ravaged by your dogs,
while armies, trained to never ask you why,
rush on until they huff-in Hades’ breath
to join him in his misty world of fogs.
Heroic soldiers, these who are now gone,
will never know whose side you’re really on.
Copyright © James Ph. Kotsybar