Devils of saintly virtues?
Or a saint of sin?
Who is evil or good?
Who bestowed such titles?

A boisterous ***** baron?
Ordained by dour dukes?
Spilled blood to pave a road?
Does your honor sunder and erode?

Was it virtuous to shove innocents?
To put them under lock and key?
Saintly, to make them fear?
Courage, to turn a blind eye?

Is it a sin to feed the starving enemy?
A devil to help a dying foreigner breath?
Bereave their suffering?
To feel guilt when malnourished prisoners beg for feed?

What makes you so noble?
Foible flags, and an adorable mantra?
A little training makes it right?
Maybe you know it does not,

Paving roads with bones and blood?
Did you join to fire a gun?
To retrieve bullets from inside of someone?
To stand for your flag and defend?

Does a medal wash away those sins?
All forgiven because you won?
Bombs dropped and humanity undone,
Another chapter in the book of justification,

Titled, ‘War is Hell’
The history of death, peace unsung,
Souls seized, leaders appeased,
From rot, money and disease,

Waiting for battle under south side trees,
What makes you better then them?
Education? A uniform?
Signing your life away to conform?

What if your not as noble as you seem?
Noble intentions in a hellish scene,
In total might, what if neither is right?
A hired killer of a higher power,

Atrocities in the name of swell intentions,
Killing for Lord Benton, or General Jenkins,
Does what you read make you mad?
Or sad?

Will war ravished ruffians take pity?
Is it wrong if they slaughter and **** your life?
Everyone in it?
Will your god founded, blessed flag save you?

Maybe they are right,
After all,
You did it to them first,
Suddenly it’s wrong? No chalking up to war is hell?

Maybe you’re lost,
Maybe notches on your gun makes you proud of past,
Maybe feel lied to, in a cloud,
Or maybe you’re a demonic psychopath,

The history of Saints is usually tattered with sin,
Passing volatile judgements upon men,
Devils usually do what they are asked,
Whether or not it should come to pass,

After all,
It was conflict that caused Edens fall,
Do you care if you’re right or wrong?
You, mercenary of the flag?

When is wrong, right?
Right, wrong?
Call you hero and sing your song,
Will history see it like you?


After all,
Stonewall made innocent civilians fall,
Regarded hero,
Instructed by a drunk,

Who are you?
What makes you so great?
Why are you right?
Why are you wrong?

In the end, I don’t care if you think,
Or ask yourself stated questions,
That’s not my biz,
Simply put...
It is what it is..

Dry crying
with your mistless tongue
gacking and clatting
(a toy tapping out the winding
in its clockwork mockery)
Dry crying your devotions
and gloved family
into nothing more than vented memory
Your pores pelt vapor
You treaten thinner
stern thing
true to your wood
Dry to make your soldier state
Link rank with your troop mate
Crop your mind foreign of frills
Pay attention with your brothers in drill

Indeed, it is lifeless
But it gives life to her hopes.
It is a witness;
Witness of her all time pains.
It is her friend whom
She shares her thoughts with.
She looks into a distance
Upto the place her eyes can see,
Tears flow down vigourously.
Yet, hope remains deep down the heart.
It shines;
Along with it shine her faiths,
Her faiths would have died a long ago
If it did not exist.
She gazes into its light,
It says to her,"your wait is not wasted."
She strengthens...
She grows stronger with the words.
When everything faded away,
When darkness covered the dawn of life,
When there was shadow all over,
It had helped her fight;
Fight with the pessimism of life.
To the rest of the world,
It was just a piece of mud.
But to her,
It was 'THE DIYO'
Her courage, her belief and her faith
Whose never ending light
Would provide her
A reason to fight and survive.

In Memory of My Beginning
We of fitter gun were harassed in our youth by the file, the use of which is an art. It’s not just rubbing the file back and forth. Every stroke should count and move you one step closer to a smooth, polished finish without gouges or abrasion marks. Just like growing up really; like life. Hence:

At Arborfield, remember where we learned to use a file
On a wicked lump of mild steel they gave us for our own?
Reduce its size they told us, and that without a smile.
So we set-to with hands that ached, stiff fingers and a groan.
Two inches square it had to be within a 'thou' or two.
Push fitted through an aperture, eight differing ways all told.
And by miracle (craft) that metal was transformed by me and you
With a Four Inch smooth and lots of chalk, and even though now old
I recall as though I were still there, bent over at the bench, and still
Unsure of what my life might be, what even I should dare
With this feeler gauge and set square, scraper, tap and drill,
The which to shape this wicked lump into the perfect square.
The perfect square, what a hope; that shape for which we then aspired.
Compelled, it's true reluctantly at times but which by none the less
Were laid foundations for the lives we've subsequently had;
And the which by some admired.

At Day’s End

Beneath the jungle canopy all is quiet, and very still.
The heat it prickles up and down my back, beneath the sweat.
And the faces that I see from where I crouch, look tired and ill,
And the cam-cream smeared theatrically about my face,
feels not quite wet.

And I carefully check the rear-sight of my rifle once again,
Trial the muzzle back and forth, from side to side.
For the thousandth time I wish that it would hurry up and rain,
And I wonder, were I him, where I would hide.

And I hear them scraping track-plans and that worries me a bit.
The harbour though should shortly settle down.
Then Frank will come and take me back to man my weapon-pit,
**** give out the evening o-group with his usual, surly frown.

Then as the barking deer call forth the fresh, cool, restful night,
We'll stand-to, listening quietly 'til there's no more light to see.
'Tis now, oft-times, we hear the noise of someone else's fight;
(queer, how those distant, violent sounds, engender peace in me)

And at the last, when darkness comes, each boot I shall unlace,
And these sweat-soaked, dirt-encrusted socks, place in my shirt to dry and keep.
With webbing spread beside me and my rifle, cleaned and in its place,
I can lie at length to rub my toes in peace,
Then go to sleep.

I’m no longer a fighter,
At least not the one you once knew;
The world isn't getting brighter;
Just a little bit darker.
Friends seem farther,
Demons just a little bit closer.
With my thinking,
There’s never closure;
I can’t ever find my way.
For in the dark of night,
I seek the light of day.
Gone down the wrong road,
I'm not a prince, just a toad;
Buried beneath,
Stuck in Morse code.
Thought I could go god mode;
Super strength, all-powerful.
I thought I was incredible,
But I'm no Bruce Banner.
I thought I was invincible,
But I'm no Iron Man.
More like the Metal Man,
Meddling in affairs.
‘Cept life's not fair.

Already placed in battle,
Rifle running rattle,
I’m training like a soldier;
Thoughts crowding like cattle,
Thought I could hold her;
She's all I can think about.
Can't get her out of my head.
Used to feel alive,
Now, I'm feeling dead.
This one-sided attraction,
Self-doubt, large fraction,
Chemical chain reaction;
Rejection, hit like a wall,
Made me fall;
Like first king, Saul,
Can't stand tall.
Am I a man?
Can't hold her hand.
It's like Wendy and Peter Pan,
Lost in Neverland.
I feel paralyzed,
No vice vision;
Fast forward,
Rewind.
No direction,
I'm blind.
This is my body.
This is my mind.
Muscle-memory mimicry,
Chained down,
I thought that I was free.
Guard up,  
I thought that I could be me.

You see,
I used to be a fighter.
But I'm tired of fighting.
I should've enlisted,  
Here, I never existed.
This story's end,
Happily never after;
This decade's end,
Turning twenty-one;
My match has ended.
And I still haven't won.
Fire's been extinguished.
Fuel tank's empty.
No more will in me.
The pressure's killing me.
Bout to go off,
Time's ticking to two;
These gloves, I'm hanging up,
I'm finally through.
Points don't matter,
The price ain't right.
I ain't a Mad Hatter,
I’m down, no flight.
Insanity isn't my vanity;
I feel like I've lost my humanity,
I'm not trying to be a tragedy,
In all actuality,
I've reached my capacity;
Anxiety caused a calamity,
And, now, this is my reality.

A fighter no more,
I lost the war.
Yeah, I ain't Thor;
I may have lost my roar,
But my legacy leaves a lore.
Unworthy of the hammer,
I feel like I'm in the slammer.
Outcast like the Martian from Mars,
Stone walls and iron bars;
They say that I should  
Reach for the stars.
You’ll reach Jupiter in no time,
Just get on the grind, and climb.
They say that my writing's good;
But good was never enough.
Just gotta act tough, and
You'll get through the rough stuff.