And on the last day of the month, comes the poem

Our son just turned 18. Probably the reason this poem showed up when I sat down to write something for the last day of the month.


Exporting Democracy

After the bullet, comes the fall,
the scuffle of dry sand as a body drops,
the legs gone limp and the heart angrily racing;
the tan is stained with red --
life fades, another conscript dies,
all noise and shouting turns to silence,
all meaning and direction gone to black.

This is no battle won, no message sent,
no ideals and honor brought to a new people.
This is a only a shout of anger and power,
sung by lost leaders
and heard as an empty dirge over foreign skies.