All wars begin with the lie,

that diplomacy

has failed

to see

your

truth.

When I die

on foreign fields,

clawing

blood soaked sand

for policy,

let it be real,

my viens opended

to meaning,

presence

and the hope

that if not tomorrow,

then soon,

change will accompany

that slimmest of realities,

peace

in the cry

of a dripping mother

giving birth

knowing her child

will not sacrifice

these far too few

gasps of air

for a vote

in a

subsidised

cornfield.

When I leave

this life

in a snipers

glass cross,

my red river of existence

sprayed across

my saluting comrades,

let them believe,

as they stare ahead

that the future we all shared

will endure

and prosper

beyond the spin,

the endless empty

posturing

of those who

lied

and branded

my soul

forfeit

for an

ill planned,

ill concieved

illusion.