War's Habit

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 might not

He or she be of thoughtless and fervid desire
A faith as inspired as the holy of evil
To call on their own children
To blindly seek the blackness
Of dishonest promises

Let he who so bows
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 discovered skeletal remains
Lying on its side
Resting half-crouching as it fell
Supported still by a single arm
Frozen in death
All that's left from an IED

Perfect

Allowing that it is headless
With tattered smoldering cloth
Still draped about its shoulders

Let them
The sanctimonious lords of war
Realize this grand and glorious act
Distilling all youth and joy and life into a fetid heap
Extremist's hideous putrescence
All in the name of...

Or

Maybe it is merely war's habit
Oblivious