Arms Dealers

I do wonder if demons walk the Earth,
For some fit the role,
Not in scorched skin and horns,
But with infernal actions,
With a very human tint,
Supping on coinage rather than worship,

These jackboot and tie creatures,
Instead of fire and brimstone,
They breath ammunition casings and rocket pods,
Selling craters to the highest bidder,
They don’t demand blood for their rituals,
Just a few extra zeroes on an invoice,

In lieu of a spell or summoning,
Receive a revolution or coup,
Rifles and pistols and bombs,
Oh my,
These hellions can provide so much,
Rivers of red for stacks of green,

Don’t be so surprised,
You know what they say,
Some want to watch the world burn,
Others want to sell the gasoline.

Invasion

It appears an invasion has begun,
An all-out assault,
With bayonet and landship,
The dark thoughts are coming,
They keep trying to cross the picket lines,
To poison the well,
With their gunpowder plots and their coups,

But the defences hold,
They have to this time,
My mind has been newly fortified,
With pillbox and barbed wire,
My mental core shall kill them in the trenches,
Never again shall I be occupied again,
Taken over by invisible negativity.

Frontline

Each time we wake,
We find ourselves on the frontline,
In an armed conflict with life,
A dictator made of heartbeats,
We’ve been running over asphalt no-mans land,
Headlong through machinegun fire,
And crawling through dialogue razor wire,
Dodging artillery made of ordeals,

Every day we are veterans,
Taking names,
Chewing bubble-gum,
And weeping in the dark,
Resting in trenches is no rest at all,
But is that not what all our beds are?
Deities pass over in biplanes,
Blissfully ignorant of our plight,

Our battle gear is paltry,
A birthday suit coddled by mud,
A rifle loaded only with futile dreams,
Still we struggle on,
Yet despite our valour,
The fury of our charge,
We will never reach our foe with bayonets,
And no medals wait at the end.

Guilty Bombardier

I once met an anguished veteran,
A bombardier,
Crying as he discarded his medals,
He adored his flag,
And loved to fly just as much,
O’er mountain and border,
Turboprop and piston and jets,
But the air is the realm of war as well as cherubs,
They abused his aeronautical love,

He grew tired of painting red upon maps,
Weary of scorching the edges of the parchment,
Dropping bombs for powerful men,
Craters where lives once flourished,
The guilt overtook his pride over the years,
Aircraft were no more iron angels,
But dragons with dread munitions,
So he dropped those platinum medals,
As he once expelled hell from the sky.

People

I fear that masses are being castigated,
For the vices of a single man,
A fine line lies betwixt leaders and despots,
Power can be reaped dishonestly,
And often is,
Then wielded against citizenry and neighbour alike,

The people are not their nations sins,
Nor its aggression,
The people do not crave bloodshed,
Even soldiers rarely wish to kill,
They too cry as bombs drop over borders,
Not a KGB smile to be seen,

So before labelling them marauders,
Devils in human guise,
Just remember,
We the people,
They the people,
All are people.

Borders

This world is split into petty fiefdoms,
Swathes of land divided haphazardly,
Lines painted in blood and oil,
An unnatural barrier with great sway,
With the common folk cut betwixt masters,
Made unwilling foes,
A race split into us and them,
Fighting wars over borders pencilled in by dead men,

As they laugh in their coffins,
Already bedded with their winnings,
These lines,
Their artistic carving of dirt,
Impels us to be unwitting conscripts,
Speaking in munitions rather than parlance,
Trading antagonisms as readily as grain,
Dividing us ever further.

Fair Winds

To those of us about to die,
To each patriot and scallywag among our number,
To the men sailing for King and country,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those lads about to be run through,
The bodies soon to be broken and burned,
The men butchered by shrapnel and cannon,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those mothers and widows-to-be,
The saints left on home soil,
Those with newly cold beds,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those who’ll survive though mangled,
Cursed with phantom limbs and shellshock,
To the victims whose minds are now ravaged,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those names laid in granite before me,
To those lads who have earned a final rest,
Now upon clouds or burning in flames,
Fair winds and following seas.

Air Raid Siren

The symphony commences,
As the sky grows dark,
Metallic warnings in the air,
Cacophonous and shrill,
Like lost souls lamenting the plight of the living,
From their vantage points,
Those sirens have seen the approaching flags,
Riding upon rockets and helicopter blades,
Their hymn warns of fire and brimstone,
Depleted uranium fireworks,
This is no party tune,
But the raucous dirge of a nation.

Warriors End

Among those fearsome boreal raiders,
When a warrior falls,
Respects must be paid,
For a warrior to rest easy,
Like a toll to the reaper,
A gift to the hereafter,
Like any legendary fighter has a moniker,
A warriors sword too has a name,
A hero in its own right,
And like any partner would hope for,
It was interred beside him,
The warriors sword was bent double,
Granted a warriors death itself,
And covered in the same graveyard dirt,
To lay still in the same valhalla.

No-Go Zone

I find myself too close to the frontline,
A contest between two flags,
I see flames encroaching on the horizon,
The heat grins upon my cheeks,
Scalding like impending doom,
These highlands are a no-go zone,
A board game too close to a fireplace,
The stage of a ruinous romp,
The two flags converse here in mushroom clouds,
Talking points at destructive decibels,
Airstrike arguments,
And howitzer handshakes,

I dare not linger,
These men in high castles care not for the little guy,
They propel uranium darts at this wasteland board,
Collateral damage upon their tongues,
Before kissing above the carnage they wrought.