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.