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I question my choices and the air
swiftly replies with a

Bullet

Into a familiarly young shell-shocked
face.

I was the very model of good intentions but
also the model of what was required.
Stick me up on a billboard and give every one
a gun I was the

hero for once
and I still am,
doing braver things
than I ever thought I
could.

So why does this feel wrong?

Every body knows that peace
is worth death a million times over.

Every body except the one holding
the gun and wishing that he'd noticed
the contradiction.

I search for a friend, the silver lining,
and I'm slapped with distant khaki splodges.
Useful only when things take a turn
for the worse.
Identity dependent on the amount of
young shell-shocked faces
we've seen die.

Is this what I should have chose?
Maybe this is what I'm meant for.
Without a doubt it is honourable
and everything good
like I was taught to be.

But again I'm slapped with
distant khaki splodges on paper
written on by suited men in
swivel chairs,
while my nose drips
from the smell
of butchered bodies.

Maybe in my next life
and in some other world
war I should relish this
all over again and
be tested by how many
humans I can watch die
before I give up.

Start my training
only this time
no more searching for a
victory that was never there
in the first place.
I'll know my place
as a human killing
machine or
perhaps not even that
much – just a method
for sorting out problems
that will only start over again.

Won't waste my time on
false hope for the
world.

So,
Where do I sign up?