Poem #8 – War

The blackman pokes through the trees,
as we fight through the streets;
torches burning at night.
When the gun shots ring out,
and the old boys they shout ,
spilling whiskey over the porch lights.
Mushroom clouds to the West,
and the rich boys invest
in the war-machine at our feet.
They forsake the past,
yet teach war in class
so the good boys can die out young.

When the draft pulls us in,
we’ll dine beside our sins
and the dark man will greet us.
He will barter our souls,
as the wars take their tolls,
so men behind desks may live happy.
They saw we fight for the dream,
yet we die for the greed
and the albatross will sing us a chorus.
The piper he plays
as the common man slays
any hope for a world of reason.

When the horsemen arrive,
the cowards will then hide
and the people will guide themselves home.
In the eyes of our lord,
and the blood stains the sword
the wars leaving the fields red.

The smoke stains the sky,
the forest folk will cry
and the dark will win again.
Mutually we’re assured
of safety I concur
can we find our way home?


About Damian Rucci

D.F. Rucci is a writer, blogger, and a musician from a small town in New Jersey. View all posts by Damian Rucci

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