Tin Cans
Tin cans
clothed in shrapnel
and medals of honor.
They methodically clink
behind the happy processional.
Welcome home to the
freedom fighters,
war mongers,
glory seekers.
Those shot down in battle,
or in childish games
of target practice.
When red blood sells
morale contains no sound.
Yet echoes vibrate through bloodied ground,
rhythmic undulations
ringing in the ears
of corpses
given no name or face.
Whether iron or irony
welcome home,
war is over.
Peace came in pieces
to the tin can soldier.
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