The Battlefield

The Battlefield

It is said that some are taken by terror
When thrust upon the battlefield.
They say that some even soil themselves,
When the battle starts closing in.
They, often, can sense the stark reality
Of their own finite existence.
They fear a world moving on without them;
A list of goals yet unfulfilled.
They fear not having said I love you enough,
Lamenting each heart they’ve broken.
They wonder if their families will gather
Once every year, on their birthdays;
Tell stories that weren’t entirely accurate
About magical times you’d shared;
While thumbing through the family photo album,
And getting lost in the pictures.
Soldiers ponder the meaning of their lives,
And wonder if they made a difference.
At that moment, a prayer escapes their lips;
Just in case God really is there.
If He is, perhaps He would be willing
To let them live a while longer.
They promise to become better people,
If they live to see tomorrow.
It’s at that moment they fully understand,
They must kill or, themselves, be killed.
Come home in a box, or with blood on their hands,
In many cases, it is both.
And often, those souls who do return home,
Bring the battlefield back with them.
Yet they return to another battlefield.
Partisan agendas attack.
People who could not possibly understand,
Sling arrows of hatred at them.
Some stone them, others call them murderers,
Hypocrisies of the petty.
Those who back the president, support them,
Those who do not, bring their assaults.
Yet, when their own president takes office,
Their view of war begins to change.
If their president sends soldiers off to war,
Then such soldiers must be heroes.
But if one does not support his president,
The warrior receives his scorn.
While soldiers relive that battlefield each night,
These worthless, shallow hypocrites,
Think of new ways to hurt them even more.
Doing it at a safe distance.
For they have not the courage to face them.
Such is the way of the coward.
They fear the possibility of war
Threatening their own craven lives.
Yet as long as soldiers do the fighting
These spineless, partisan recreants,
Are free to disgorge their hypocrisies;
Freedom others fought and died for.
Meanwhile, another battlefield is bloodied,
Revisited by survivors,
Wondering, as they wake from their nightmares,
If the way of life they fought for,
And the people of the nation they love,
Were worth the sacrifice they made.
Well, I, for one, salute these men and women,
For facing what most cannot face;
Terrors which leave the hypocrite groveling.
Cowards reap the spoils of war,
While making war on those who won it for them.
And still, the soldier battles on.
They face the next threat with the same resolve
That brought them home each time before.
Still thinking about those unfulfilled dreams,
And things they wished they’d said and done.
It is said that some are taken by terror
When thrust upon the battlefield.