Soldier of the Streets

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic

This poem centres around the harsh and unjust nature of homelessness, particularly in the soldiers that once fought for the life that we get to live in. That even basic necessities and comforts
aren't available to them despite what they sacrificed, experienced and suffered through. Perhaps one of the greatest betrayals known to this day. I truly hope you enjoy what I have produced.

Submitted: July 15, 2018

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Submitted: July 15, 2018



Sent off, so far away,
Awfully young and brimming with spirit,
Grit in his teeth and a fire in his heart.
Victory and honour was promised to his name,
He stormed the lands where masters pull strings.
But now his spirit has all but vanished,
His fire extinguished evermore.

From the malicious cold of the harsh streets,
His worn cheeks glow a throbbing red,
His scarred features died a steel blue.
Scars of the very same face
that held the blood of friend and foe,
And cradled the tears of a million men,
That are now mere ghosts of his trauma.

Fallen victim,
To the ones that watch war through diamond eyes.
Playing it like a mere game of chess,
Gambling with their lives
in ‘the name of their nation.’
Knowing only sacrifice in order to fill their pockets
in a skirmish where life is worth but a penny.

The echoes of shell-fire roaring,
Still tormenting, still haunting his mind,
The jarring blasts meld into the clamouring crowd.
A petrified soul hidden by a despairing face.
Shunned by the public,
Unrecognised by relief,
Ignored by vultures that slump upon their thrones.

His eyes,
Prised open by horror,
Death and suffering.
Now glancing up to the people he once fought for.
Wrapped in fabric torn like his mind,
Dropping line of sight at the hope of a coin,
Falling audibly at his feet.

Now enduring another hell,
He has been betrayed yet again,
By the people that drew him into the first one.
His wounded brain,
Squeezed dry of sanity.
Mental needles like those of voodoo dolls,
Endlessly spear his mangled head.

He is not an object,
Not a tool,
Not a piece.
Yet regarded no more on the fields of bloody cruelty,
Or on the disdainful slabs of the pavement.
Where burning tales are hidden by sealed lips,
Suppressed in his frayed soul.

Jason Millar

[This poem has been part of a collaboration project with my good friend Hellraiser to address the heart-wrenching issue of homelessness of soldiers. Please make an effort to support his channel and his content as I would highly recommend his work. Thank you very much.]

© Copyright 2020 Jason Millar. All rights reserved.

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