for wilfred owen

They’ll write about them in history books

names engraved

on the side of dark granite walls

stacked evenly atop

with men they never knew in the flesh

In life they were teachers and firefighters

poets and undertakers

in death they are heroes

until the world forgets

it always does.

it always will.

sand spilling out of

a shattered hour glass

in times of war

the working class

become the dying class

callused hands

become trigger fingers

fed MRE’s and rations of instant coffee

In the end,

there is no such thing as a fortunate son

only the sons of the misfortunate ones

Dulce et decorum Est

Pro patria mori

To kill for your country,

the most honorable sin

yet to die for it, is the most honorable thing

America.

land of the free

because of the graves.