A Living Death

Collecting the dust and dirt in our boots

while bureaucrats parade as a “Patriotic Suit”.

Away in a far off land for political reasons,

running away is now considered treason.

 

Killing the enemy and fighting for our lives.

We write our daily struggles with our knives,

on our souls we record all our sins,

while into our hearts we inert pins.

 

Prayer is no longer an option.

I’ve placed myself under God’s adoption.

I went to hell and found my salvation,

and discovered the corruption of my nation.

Money, lust and greed are all the new kings,

tugging and pulling at everyone’s heart strings.

 

The lights of their eyes always dim and die,

but ill never forget or understand why

he died in the dusty desert sands.

His blood still stains my hands.

“For what and why?” I ask

“For the mission’s task,”

But now to rest his young body lay,

and gone his soul will forever stay.

 

Each day here, I’m locked in survival mode,

and with each day my soul seems to erode.

My sanity and humanity are dying with every breath.

It’s like God sentenced me to a hellish living death.

 

Killing the enemy and fighting for our lives.

We write our daily struggles with our knives,

on our souls we record all our sins,

while into our hearts we inert pins.

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