The tar black grains of briny beach,
of plaintive cries, the Gods beseeched.
Imploring mercy for a soul
upon whom war has taken its toll.

Desert Sand soaked in oil and blood,
thirst unquenched since biblical flood.
The air thick with diesel exhaust,
air’s coppery taste from blood lost.

As bodies flinch to the concussions,
explosive blasts of fatal percussions.
O’er ramparts more than flags fly,
ghastly silhouettes mar the sky.

Exporting ideology
so sure of its superiority.
We roll on shores with boots and tanks,
securing markets for the banks.

Although the nightmares do persist,
we’re placed on VA waiting lists.
Then chemically lobotomized,
Companies: “Oops … sorry, downsized.”

Not so old soldiers left on our own,
public streets, many now call home.
Now their fate is out of our hands,
we spent their souls on bloody sands.

M. Zane McClellan

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