Everyday I visit the war room.
O.D. green clothing lines a closet
All dress right dress, two fingers apart.
Plaques with pathetic inscriptions are hung.
Metals dangle from a dusty shadowbox.
With the American flag, worn next to my heart.
Pictures of time once lived accents the awards
Cheap frames immortalize a time best forgotten.
Everything is here, everything I earned from the start.
I resent who I have become during that time,
Worthless memorabilia of my proudest hour.
Now I loath the war room art.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
We are all but discarded in this world where peace is a lie and war is looked upon as evil.....the real evil is in the lie that there can be peace without victory. History repeats itself.