War is a ghostly fog, thick and permanent.
There is no clarity.
There is no virtue.
Right spills over into wrong.
War is ugly, war is beautiful.
War is a wide river turning pinkish red
It’s wonder and awe at the setting sun
And sunlight shining on the face of a buddy
And that same sunlight
Shining on pieces of skin and something wet and yellow that must’ve been intestines
Hanging from a lemon tree.
War is hell.
War is violence and death and obscenity and evil
That never leave.
War is a paradox.
Order blends into chaos,
Love into hate,
Law into anarchy,
Civility into savagery.
Nothing is ever absolutely true.
The only certainty is absolute ambiguity
And everything swirls
And the vapors suck you in
And you choke
Because war is a ghostly fog.
(Written with the words of Tim O'Brien in The Things They Carried)
This poem greatly captures the ironic beauty and disaster of war. I like how you beautifully paint a picture of a sunset and then beautifully paint the intestines of someone in a tree. It's disgusting and it captures what it's like to be in a war.
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