image from seattle.pi.com
Poem written for and submitted to "The Selfish Egos of War" poetry contest, Craig Cornish, sponsor, November 26, 2025.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The general’s monocle holds no reflection~ only maps where borders bleed like wet ink. His uniform stiffens with every medal, each one hammered from the same mute ore. He signs the orders first, then breakfast~ black coffee, bitter as spent shells. The map is clean where his finger rests, no mud, no blood, just ink-stained creases. Five thousand tons of steel will roll where his pencil hesitates. The military machine calls it strategy~ a word that appeals to the masses better than corpse or widow. Down the hall, the lieutenant memorizes his father’s frown, practicing it in the mirror. Promotion tastes like brass buttons dissolving on his tongue. The General studies the map again~ his coffee gone cold. He traces borders with his finger. one that’s never touched dirt or trembled in surrender. Victory fits neatly in his briefcase. On the battlefield weeks later, a corporal triumphantly wipes his blade and thinks of the boy who called him coward ten years ago, in a schoolyard. Later, alone, the General admires his reflection in the polished table, imagining history books too kind to mention the tremor in his hand. And the wartime ego? It never dies. It digs trenches in the mind, planting flags in the graveyards of reason.
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