The True Cost of War

Shots ring in the distance, the smell of death,
The thunder of battle, the hell of war.
Smoke wisps, like so many soldiers last breaths,
Drifting to obscure this vision of gore
While the blood-red sunset filtering through
The haze paints a portrait almost surreal.
Yet real it is, as the dying still groan anew.
They’re bleeding from wounds that will never heal
For they shall pass away before the morn.
Forgotten they shall pass away alone
While fam’lies weep at home, waiting, forlorn.
While bellicose gen’rals marshal anon
Who shall recall these many boys and men
Who’ve gone to rest for others’ pride and fame?
Their quiet graves unmarked, their tales unpenned,
And only their lovers remember their names.