Out of their graves they arise
like the skeletal wives
of the industrial revolution
trading flesh for just a drop of water
to restore the cumbersome faith
in a regime where life is trivial-
where its cost is easily determined
as less than that of a coffee bean,
a gallon of oil, and a bullet.

They regroup at the base
of a looming empty silence
where once eardrums
threatened to burst in disagreement
and sweat tasted of the salty oil
that flooded their graves each night
as they were once again laid to rest
only to return with the fearful light
in the morning.

Under false pretenses their caskets
were shut and buried.
Their skins replaced by drones
fueled by blood as thick as oil
but as blue as American skies.
From them bleeds a freedom
so intangible that even when it
seeps between their fingers
the ground has dried,
the dust has blown from dune to dune
before loved ones break in pain.

This is not the evolution once dreamed of
by the now walking wounded-
from flesh, to robotic skeleton
outfitted with appendages of nuclear weaponry
too great for even paraplegics and thieves
to be cast out from the barracks.
Battle welcomes all walks-
all facts- of life.

For those that scream in terror
their tales at night while the naive
sleep in fear of resurrection
of these pains, whether voluntary or enforced,
an innate awareness grows.
No longer are the causes determinant
of the actions suited amongst these men
in a fight for justice- it is just this:
to fight for life is fatal
to fight for death is fact.


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