War Machine Poem by Graham Stone

Nothing but a clone,
Another brother with arms to hold.
So set in terror and grief,
You refuse to question the
Illogical boundaries that crush
And pack your limbs into the great
War Machine.
Too feeble of mind now, are you,
To picket against the cold establishment
Which will inevitably beget your demise.
Ironic is it not, that you dreamt of peace,
But then, without regard,
You threw yourselves into
The gaping, mouth of the yawning giant.
You are now a product of the machine,
And it owns you.
You aren’t free, and you aren’t unique.
No, not anymore.
God’s sadistic mind
Sets you your limits,
A list liberal and fitting
For condemned souls,
Such as yourselves,
Lost along a forgotten wake,
Mere ghosts of living.
Can you not feel the monotonous
Drive of your droning, damp lives?
You simply are smouldered coals on the fire
That fuels this monstrosity you call existence.
You glow because the un-breathable heat of life wills it,
Yet in the end, you are soot and ash,
Burnt away pushing forth this despotic machine
And with a poker, death stubs you out one by one,
Only to replace you with a new lump of coal.
You call this reason
You call this freedom?
Manufactured and harvested for this sole purpose?
Yet, no beaten belief, nor calculated befuddlement
Will disarray the fact that you are no different
To the lump of coal before you or that of which
Will take your place, after your life is spent as
Canon fodder, bullet dispensers,
And broken souls to feed the lurching,
Churning, eternal
Monstrous War Machine.