Society seems to forget what soldiers do for their country, this is just a look into one man's thoughts of it

He strove for it,
in a life so tenuous
the footsteps only left
silver trails, the snails
in a compost, corrupted with
the slime of yesterdays

Had rubbed shoulders,
satined symbols; the
wealthy who had paid his dues
Came home to drink dregs with
forty four gallon people,
tinned fire that warmed
worn out hands and weary thoughts,
the flame: patriotism that burned
beneath a concrete bridge

He'd seen more fighting
than a man should,
stolen souls from slips;
boy's in childhood just begun,
while leaving mother's weeping,
ones that remained alive
in skins that would never be whole

Remembers the story from an old soldier,
searching the world in
salvation or faith; one could
never be sure,
it was hard to see a face, between
the acrid smoke and bloodied limbs
but he was certain; memorial was
being built for him

As he speared a tattered flag
into tainted soil, people cheered,
his comrades cried, knowing the cost
of the bitter rags that flew
and in his hand lay a heart,
an iron cross burning its courage,
imprinted on frozen palm

His home who sent him to the centre
of a black parade
now welcomed him back to its bosom,
just one more legacy of another
young man, society had forgotten