That Man

When he’s around, you’d better watch your back.
He’ll use every bit of ammo he can find.
He’ll take the shells you left on the ground,
reducing, reusing, recycling
the same old arguments that he used
for wins in the war.

Reducing
it all down to sound bites.
The complex strategies,
the great plans I have,
he says, “You’ll never get past the starting line.”
It’s not a challenge.
His shotgun of spite
fires into my back again.

Reusing.
I remember back in the war,
when I was just beginning to live.
My father, killed in action.
You know who’s to blame.
Now he’s on a mission, killing the child
that my father left behind.

Recycling
the bullets of vitriol he’d collected.
Years have passed.
The conflict has been resolved.
Our countries are allies now.
Even he knows that!
He just doesn’t know what to do with all that hate.

Let’s just say that my guys used to be fun and happy and light.
They never wanted to have to fight so hard for freedom.
Now sometimes they think they’re wrong to fight.
At times, I just can’t get them out of bed.
They’d rather just be left to die,
then to fight such a miserable,
degrading, demoralizing, deadly
war.