glory vietnam-war stories

gayemotbhdepressed and well dressed. gf of astro
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
i went on an anti-war rant with my boyfriend, and this poem is spawned of it.


by gayemotbh

a criticism of the false mentality of glory in a war.

his black boots stamp the wood of a train car

only to be stained with the brown of mud.

he slips on his khakis; their green and muted yellow colours brilliant against him

even more as they become crimson stained by the ally and the enemy.

he takes his gun, a rifle, and feels along the wood and metal in admiration

only to then throw it upon the ground, wanting redemption of sin.

he looks at their faces, smiling, laughing with banter and drink

only for them to be cold and bug-eyed, staring at nothing and himself.

his nails are clean, his hair combed, his face fresh for the front

only for his nails to fill with grime, his hair to wear a coat of grease, his face to be coated in dirt.

he kisses his cross, and draws it upon his body and soul

only to wonder if it means anything at all.

he expected to be home by the time of giving, with glory and a medal to his name

but all he came home with were unforeseen scars and a shell of himself.

he expected heroism, and desired glory

but he forgot something crucial, a truth unspoken.

in the mud of the trench, and the stink of war's day

in war there is death, and in death is no glory.

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