The Menu of War

A quiet fog, shooters breath,

Rifles lay besides their owners

War, a grey colour,

A somewhat disturbing shade,

Possession or freedom for religion,

Death is more like the catch of the day,

Most popular on the menu.

A list of destruction,

Death chosen by most,

Send it back, it tastes rotten.

Feelings of guilt ridden horror,

Evilness in gargantuan amounts,

Tragic sights, worn, war torn limbs,

Bloody displaced bones and flesh

Where they should not be.

Exploding mines,

Change the life of both sides,

Bullets lodged, shrapnel wounds

Dished out like a dessert,

From the menu of war.

Politicians with dirty hands,

Blood remains in their bodies,

Not spilled out like a soldiers red liquid,

Blooded scars deeply encroached

Into their digits.

The guns slip through

Their so called leaders fingers,

Playing that same tune again Sam,

Change the menu of war,

Will our food taste good again?

Can we all eat in peace!

Justin Ashford