🖤 The Art Of Modern Warfare 🖤 Poem by James McLain

The Art of Modern Warfare
Inspired By General Mark Milley

In fields once green, where soldiers stood,
We wage our wars with iron and wood.
But now the art has taken flight,
With drones that buzz in silent night.

Steel birds above, unseen, untold,
Launch missiles swift and cruelly cold.
Precision-guided, far they roam,
And shatter lives with whispers' tone.

Tanks that rumble, great machines,
Churn through deserts, turn to screens,
Where cities fall in plumes of dust,
And metal grinds away all trust.

The rifle's crack, once personal, near,
Now fades beneath artillery's ear.
Mortars rain from skies above,
Destroying homes, not out of love.

Bullets pierce and shrapnel flies,
And limbs are torn as soldiers cry.
The body, frail in war's cruel game,
Is crushed, dismembered—left in shame.

Chemical clouds, unseen, devour,
Burn skin, blind eyes in fatal hour.
Nerve agents seep, with deadly grace,
And leave no trace upon the face.

But in the smoke, the cries, the pain,
The question rises yet again:
What cost is war? What price is paid,
When peace is lost and life betrayed?

The human heart, it knows the toll,
For every bomb, a broken soul.
Each weapon built, each missile fired,
Stokes flames of hatred, never tired.

Yet still we march, we fight, we bleed,
Believing war fulfills some need.
But in the end, when bodies lie,
Can victory justify the cry?

We argue long, we argue loud,
Of strength, of power, of nation proud.
But in each grave, beneath the sod,
The echoes whisper—there is no god.

In the art of war, we've lost the way,
When men are machines, and night eats day.
For every weapon born to kill,
A heart stops beating, a hand grows still.

And though we claim it's for the just,
Our hands are stained with blood and rust.
What art is this, that we create?
An endless war, a timeless hate.

So, here I stand, with steel and fire,
A soldier caught in war's desire.
But still I wonder, deep inside—
Is there a way, where peace may hide?