Pro Active

Thousands of acres in sand left in craters,

claret stains from lethal shrapnel

sprinkled amid the ruins,

 

the wind carries the murmurs of protests

nobody heard them over the explosions,

a mangled victim crawls

towards the remains of her house,

she’ll die before reaching the doorstep

lost her son to firing son,

declared an enemy by dictator leader

her mind dazed from loss of blood,

soon death will end her suffering

not sure the war of liberation

was any better than the evil

that held her terrorized.

 

Tanks roll past her corpse

on the way to bring freedom

and end the threat

of Weapons Of Mass Destruction.

 

Under the Iraqi sun

that pitch fork of invading force

digs for phantom bombs,

how they sprayed so much lead

just to destroy the anger broth

of hateful, boasting words.