MIA

This cursed war of life
some would call mere conflict,
and blessed peace (that might
prevail if we lay down
weapons of pretense, pride)
others could not welcome.

Here on the battlefield
we’re weary of the fight.
Day has turned to darkness;
our souls, at home with night.

So many have been lost
in senseless skirmishes;
others to “friendly fire,”
a few to suicide.
Soul-sickness of this place
will follow me for years.

But I will make it home;
my plane has left the ground.
Others: still missing, gone,
homesick but duty-bound.