Brothers Past

Marching forward into trenches
with foul stenches
of our brothers past
wishing, praying to come home fast,
wishing not in a plastic bag
praying we not lay beside a flag.

Actions are not our choice
opinion is not our voice.
Mothers we write to
and fathers we pray to
they write back
with emotion they lack
and beneath my head
sit an empty bed
due to a brother shot dead.

We are tired and poor fed,
home is in our dreams
and forever it seems
until we live in peace again.
who knows how this war will end?