War’s Habit
by Odin Roark


War knows not play,
even as small boys think it so
with wooden guns,
imagining discharge of weaponry.

He who thinks war a glorious thing,
who thrives on spewing forth words of exhortation,
invoking some kind of honor,
Some distorted idea of praise and valor,
Love of country…

Think again.

For he or she might not
be of thoughtless and fervid desire,
a faith as inspired as the holy of evil,
calling upon their children
to blindly seek the escape
of dishonest promises.

Let those who so bow,
look at 5 year old Omran Daqneesh,
a victim of Assad’s relentless bombing.

Look at piles of sodden gray rags
covering halves of skulls,
perhaps a shin bone here and there,
maybe that which might have been ribs,
or a discovered skeletal remains
lying on its side,
resting half-crouching as if defying reality,
supported still by a single arm,
frozen in death all that’s left
from a Syrian bombing in Aleppo.

And this is called “justification” by war mongers.

Allowing that it is headless,
with tattered smoldering cloth
still draped about its shoulders,
let them, the sanctimonious lords of domination and power
realize their grand and glorious act,
depriving all youth of joy and life
is becoming a fetid heap of extremist’s hideous putrescence.

Compellingly sad,
carried out in the name of divide and conquer.
Such is but war’s habit.