Like toy soldiers

“When the rich wage war, it’s the poor who die.”
Jean-Paul Sartre

Scarlet will stain green
Scarlet will stain the once keen.
Scarlet will spoil his soul,
Scarlet will taint him as a whole.

He stands there, gazing steely and bitterly at the coffin.

He does not scream and yell why?! Why did he, out of all the people in this world have to die?! He doesn’t even cry, though the gleam residing within his dark eyes is unmistakeably the gleam of tears. He restrains himself.

The wind blows gently at his skin, tickling his bare neck and bare scalp. It still feels so strange—an alien sensation—for the wind to blow at his bare head, whereas the wind would have weaved it’s way through his thick mesh of auburn and autumn leaves.

Trumpets and drums sound, a steady, thrumming noise entering his ears, as the shrilly screech of the trumpet echoes throughout the whole cosmos, ricocheting off of every small alcove and corner.

He watches as the American flag is spread across the coffin, vibrant wine-red, azure-blue and clear white clashing with the ebony hued wood of the rosewood coffin.

The sun shines down on his neck, on his face, burning and scorching his skin—but he says not a word. Makes not a sound.

Only the subtle rise and fall of his chest shows that he is, indeed, alive, and that he feels, just as everyone does.

Those dreams of protection were spoiled,
Sweet dreams turned into bitter turmoil.

Dark, steely eyes catch a quick glance of one person, in particular.

That man’s wife, he muses, as he gazes at her—not with pity, or sympathy, but with empathy. Because he truly knew what she felt—to lose someone so precious to you.

She must be strong if she doesn’t even cry for him, he ponders. But maybe she’s already done enough crying for him.

A dark, netted veil covers her face, her hair brought to the crown of her head, dirty blonde tresses pouring down in disheveled, yet swooping ringlets, like miniature rivulets. Her eyes downcast, lightly-coloured eyelashes pressed into the gleaming skin of her porcelain face.

Her fingers fist in the fabric of her cotton, gleaming ebony shirt, fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

A calloused palm covers her hand, bronze, hardened flesh covering the soft, smooth skin of her hand, squeezing her hand reassuringly. She looks up at her father through empty, jaded eyes. There’s a slight garnet tint to them—bloodshot—from the crying she had done the days before.

The corners of her lips shake and quiver, as she tries for a shaky, false smile—but, there’s no point in smiling.

After all, who would want to smile, knowing they’d never see the one person to them who meant the most—the one person they loved the most—the apple of their eye.

But it was his decision,
His dream,
But then again
Maybe he was just too keen.

It was unfair. To see a man with so much to live for—

(—a beautiful, tender woman for his wife—honest, sincere people for his parents—happy, naïve, cute children waiting for him in the future—)

—to die protecting you.

If he could’ve, he would’ve paused time and reversed their positions. He was a nothing and that man was a something.

That man was the good one—that man was the good son. Whereas he was the failure, the one everyone either pitied or hated. Always had to be helped by the good son—always had to be protected by the good son, the guardian angel, for all his stupid mistakes.

(it was ironic—painfully ironic)

And in the end, it was the bad son who was always a burden in his life.

Scarlet spills as do screams,
The ones that’ll haunt his dreams.
Empty gazes will plague his mind,
Those lifeless eyes will make ‘em wish he was blind.

But he is a soldier.

A fighter for his army—a protector for his family—a protector for his home.

And regardless of whether he was a failure in life…

…he could never change what had happened.

They are soldiers,
Dressed in dusty green,
Like the grass in the night,
Only felt, but never seen…

A/N: I always wanted to write something to do with the war. Well, mainly, something to do with soldiers, and how they really are like little toys, played around with and ordered to kill. How they are the ones getting their hands stained—how they are the honest people, only joining the army to protect their family and loved ones, but only there to add to the blood-shed.

How they are manipulated by the government into getting their hands “dirty”, whereas the government prefers to just stay away from physical danger.

Well, that’s my views on soldiers and the army and stuff. But you’re probably not interested in my opinion XDD

So, before I start rambling, thoughts please?