Owen wrote of the horror of war
And the ecstasy,
The pity and the terror.
How soft is flesh, how vulnerable
To shell and steel, bomb and bullet.
Weapons move on
Only our
Guts and gore
Remain the same:
Scattered.
Our poet and artist,
The journalist and his cameraman,
Document the destruction
In loving detail.
So we can share in the visceral horror
Of shattered bones,
Torn flesh;
Bright red of life still pulsating
Even in death's embrace.
We too can march to the beat of the drum
Feel our hearts uplifted
As justice is done.
Our truth proclaimed,
Our truth triumphant.
No matter the cost
In blood and fear
Or the lives of those others
So far away,
So different to us.
We, the privileged
Drowning in excess
Stuffed and suffocating
But still not satisfied.
Bored with ease
With the stultifying safety
Of our own drear existence.
Oh, how we long to feel again.
The quick sweet rush of adrenaline
More potent than any drug:
Kill or be killed.
Life lived at the very edge
Each moment sweeter
For knowledge of its passing.
We too yearn to find God
Through Glory,
Meaning through Honour,
Purpose through the promise
Of Victory.
Even Peace may come at last
When our duty is done
And death wraps us
In her arms.
And when it ends,
As it always does
And our enemies
Are once again
The neighbours and friends they used to be
We can still hold our heads up high,
March again to the memory
Of our own lost ones,
Weep to the Last Post
Mourn with bitter sweet sadness
Their wasted youth,
Brief flame
Too quickly extinguished.
Sacrificed
To our need
To feel.