Killaholics Poem by Brian Archibald

Dusty translucent mist ridden skies,
tonight one of our men will die.
In a suit made of valor,
filled with the bodies of the men of our honor.
Sent in like a pack of wolves,
nothing lives in this molten land of grains.
Across the mirage walks another dark complected rejector,
one of the accused martyrs for justice of their own thoughts.
What the hell is that suppose to mean?
You kill for your god,
but no one else can complain.
You stand for your own beliefs,
but everyone else stands in the shallows.
Your 9/11 will come,
to be known as your day of the dead.
Sick twisted dictators,
are killers in their own right,
using there background for an excuse to fight.
Sending in their kamakazies,
while delaying on there throne.
Learn to accept the world for what it is,
perfect or not.
Only one will change the way the times flows,
sorrow and sin will forbid.
Your accusations are in denial,
the dictators will surely fail.
I repent the news of hearing more of our loved ones falling,
the thought is getting old.
The voices of another slurring martyr dying in the background.