Martyr Machine (Original Poem)

Half remembered they march as one, instincts sharpened. Stripped of what once made them individuals. Death certificates already signed, flags folded, awaiting postage. Worn concrete and countless tightly laced boots provide a familiar anthem of deadly intent. Two by two, the echoes of stomping boots create the anthem forever revered by men of low morals and high standing. Trained to kill without empathetic regard, their rifles constant recoil is all the remorse that remains.

Half forgotten they march, one thought dominating their hollowed minds,”Hero’s don’t get to walk away.” Buried, chest full of medals, and a life un-lived. This story all too familiar, plagiarized from our past. The blank expressions now immortalizing their faces personifies, the “Portrait of Patriots.” Our loss of their innocence will now be used as propaganda’s revenue.

For there is never a shortage of fuel, full tilt and unforgiving, the Martyr Machine does not relent.