Dead Men Tell No Tales


You can talk all you want about the glories of war, but you have to go to Washington d.c. and look at the wall and cemeteries to see who died there and the price one has to pay.

It’s true dead men tell no tales we need to keep, for those who sacrifice for the shame of artifice and lie we can only weep.

Their woes are imprisoned in the unbeating hearts of other men who lived on without him, who gild this dirty history, like a secret society, sworn to never reveal what we already know, they glean their riches from young men’s dreams. And young women’s souls.

All he ever wanted was to be a good, hard-working auto mechanic. To live out his simple dreams in the landscape of milk and honey.

He could have done that in any country on earth, yet his call to duty was framed in a false glory of a made-up story, his martyrdom already guaranteed as he lay far away in the mud, in a valley of green, a bloody battlefield in a place he never would have imagined he’d be, had he lived and died in the way he dreamed.


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