War delivers something significant overlooked in our hurry, blindness of its reach leading demons to our bed. Our minds see too late the sacrificed in its jaws or upon its talons with “This war, this lie will echo,” stomping inside our heads. There’s not room for much else, shrapnel has invited itself in and eats our guilt with a shovel, burrowing to our center. Another soldier, a child, who believes himself impenetrable is taken to soil for our charade, cold and ashen now. Where is the anger for having been wed to this legion, for standing motionless as deceit commits so many? Where’s the indignation? What have we sacrificed to the ground? Do we believe we’ve ducked its swipe and come out unsoiled on the other side? Now, after we’ve learned, will we snuggle up to precious war and kiss its beneficiaries, too afraid to die? War bends for no one, save for utter defeat. These are the days of our significance, these we live, so grab the warring shovel and bury it of its damn...