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With words they go to battle,
For power and land.
Anticipating an order from a general,
Miles outbound.
Frontline is where the real men,
Stand.
Like dutiful dogs they wait in lay,
Marking an indistinguishable,
Border of disguise.
Looking for the foe, thinking of home.
Searching for certainty,
With which they have no doubt.
Politician addresses the nation,
They all stop and listen.
Praising and pleading,
For the men on the frontline.
Pawns to play,
Turns, nods at the generals rye smile.
Led rains on the frontline,
Decorating the landscape,
Rubble and the dead.
Politicians come under fire,
Trepidation and opinions,
No bullets,
The wake of the storm is rancid,
In flavour of the psyche.
Politician queries actions taken,
Lives gambled, lives conquered.
All for the cause of a gentlemen.
On the front line,
Men lay,
amongst the wake of the bombs.
Agonised bodies, lifeless.
A breeze scatters the battle worn sand,
A mans memory falls from his hand.
© Byron McAlpine
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