Conventions of War
There are many of these it seems,
Always changing over time,
As present passes into history.
But none of these bad dreams,
Can clearly be decoded.
In one context or the next.
So the umbrella of convention,
Always leaks a little,
And sometimes leaks a lot,
When the storm of death arrives,
On the field of battle.
Then the storm spills into Geneva,
As civilization fights a comeback round.
Why are we surprised and shocked,
At mortal inability to decipher,
A conventional killing in the future.
Maybe our eyes can't see far enough,
Either behind us or ahead,
And the distance of time clouds our view,
Of a future soldier in the field.
Who will once again see death,
All too close and clear
Copyright © James Rudd | Year Posted 2009
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