The Menu Of War Poem by Justin Ashford

A quiet fog, shooters breath,
Rifles lay besides their owners
War, a grey colour,
A somewhat disturbing shade,
Possession or freedom for religion,
Death is more like the catch of the day,
Most popular on the menu.
A list of destruction,
Death chosen by most,
Send it back, it tastes rotten.
Feelings of guilt ridden horror,
Evilness in gargantuan amounts,
Tragic sights, worn, war torn limbs,
Bloody displaced bones and flesh,
Where they should not be.
Exploding mines,
Change the life of both sides,
Bullets lodged, shrapnel wounds
Dished out like a dessert,
From the menu of war.
Politicians with dirty hands,
Blood remains in their bodies,
Not spilled out like a soldiers red liquid,
Blooded scars deeply encroached
Into their digits.
The guns slip through
Their so called leaders fingers,
Playing that same tune again Sam,
Change the menu of war,
Will our food taste good again?
Can we all eat in peace!