Mr Godbold

What is the most a man can give, to go to war so that we could live?
What on earth is a man to do, if he knows not where he is to go?
Making footsteps in the snow, the advance to battle is slow.

Why does a man hold the enemy at bay, for such a meagre pay?
Is it because he must stay, In order to return home one day?
What if war is as simple as a game of chess? Let’s ask the man with a hole in his chest.
Four long years they bore such stress, leaving their minds in such a mess.
Who could predict the horrors they would find, would these memories ever escape their minds?
A trauma that runs so deep, constantly haunting each man’s sleep.

Who knows the truth to any question, of the many that arose since the great wars inception.  All we can say for sure, is that death has no cure.

How many men tried, to the point that they cried, martyrs died, heroes survived.  Has anything really commutated, since the Great War concluded?

Gone are the boot prints on no man’s land, but many still show in Afghan sand. Can we truly celebrate victory in war, when we all know there will be more?

How many men will duty send, before it is the real end?
When they say the war has ended, they forget there are men, minds, souls to be mended…

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