Dirt war

They call you

citizen

until they

need a number

Something

to be counted

Taxpayer

Something

to be moved

Laborer

You’ll be called

patriot

when the machine

needs blood

They’ll lie

to give you

a sense

of purpose

Then

dress you

in a uniform

for the flag

And teach parents

how to fold

their grief

into triangles

Somewhere

in climate controlled

well lit rooms

Far from

the screaming

and the blood

Politicians

study maps

erase villages

and calculate

acceptable loss

Without ever

smelling death

When a soldier

falls in battle

the map

does not change

As another

takes his place

A family

loses a son

The machine

loses a unit

There is

a difference

But only

one of them

knows it

The speeches

come later

He died

with honor

We appreciate

his sacrifice

Beautiful words

placed like flowers

over the lies

and industrial

decisions

Because

there are things

governments

cannot

and will not say

You are not

a citizen

You are

what the

nation spends

All of us

We are

plastic soldiers

in a miniature

dirt war

Held between

the fingers

of politicians

Who will never

have to face

the wars

they start