War is a Circus

The bullets whip and crack
Around their heads
As though they were the lion
And the tamer toying with them.

The jesters lying on the ground
Juggling their organs
As though some queer pleasure
Taken in the soldier’s death.

The tight-rope walker
Risking death for the achievement
Of pleasing his masters
Walking the tight-rope of life.

The huge animals destructive
Like tanks, chaotic beats
So pleasing to the children
Controlled by a mere human

The dancers rolling
And writhing in agony
With the blood spilt
On the dusty stage.

The ring-master
Sitting in his executive chair
In front of the press and cameras
Selling and praising his show.