Aftermath
AFTERMATH
War is final but incomplete,
bodies littered like spent ammunition
along the ravaged bloody street.
But who hears the voices of condemnation
on profit-only Wall Street?
In the dirt they make their plans
to strike again at life and limb
but ghostly cries fall on deaf ears.
Who, alive, could be so bold
to find in such a loss a gain?
Better drunk with glory and feel the pain
than live a sober life in vain.
With rigid form and empty hands
the scripted epitaph of modern man
lies for all to see in the deeds
of young men, yet most turn away
ashamed of the savage reality.
To a different god they pray
but everyone just wants to live free.
To those brave warriors downed
no small measure of honour found.
War is final but incomplete,
the aftermath lives on in the faces,
the fears and in the broken street;
a boil in the hot sun of scrutiny
and the children dance in bare feet.
Conflict is old and certainly cold,
survivors return with stories untold.
The epic struggle continues between
man’s heart and his powerful greed
leaving a wasteland out of Eden.
With inner struggles the scars are hidden.
War is conflict with no remedy,
turns trusted friends into bitter enemies.
The dead have one wish, to be alive,
to be with loved ones who survive.
The aftermath, the chaos, it never ends,
on and on the sorrow and grief,
these broken lives will never mend.
Only death or peace will bring relief.
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