Boxes
It sends them back to us in boxes.
Seven foot long boxes.
That’s what this war thing does.
It takes our youth and sends us back old, tired men and women.
The lucky ones come back with just a limb, a trunk, a brain missing,
The less fortunate have their spirit missing.
Perhaps those in boxes would feel less fortunate, but their service is over…
Their suffering done.
Boxes.
It sends us our future back in boxes
Seven foot long boxes.
That’s what this war thing does.
It takes our dreams of tomorrow and ends them today.
It takes our dreams of lovers and flushes them away,
The fortunate ones can’t recall another time
Perhaps those in boxes can help them, but their voice is gone
Their song is finished.
Boxes.
There are those who don’t want us to see the boxes.
Not the ones draped with the flag.
Boxes are sad things
The war thing wants it that way.
Mothers cry
Fathers weep
Sisters and brothers, too.
Widows wail and the day grows long,
Still more boxes are unveiled.
Boxes.
Seven foot long boxes.
Just the way that war thing wants it.
Just the way it was ordained.
Boxes.
Seven foot long boxes.
No comments:
Post a Comment