Pointed under a gun,
Of a very different kind.
As I sit here in the desert,
Wondering as if I were blind
In a world where I did not ask to go
Yet sent to defend a dieing liberty.
A reality of breakfast and sand
How to go back to the last hand
O f endless mindless games of reality,
If only the rest could see,
The games, the gun, the standing tall
Then to be called to fight
To stand
Under a man
I can not honour,
To destroy what is inside
Knowing that I am here for them
Those of this constitution.
Yet for oil
As I sit and sigh,
Remembering the past
How it did not last
To leave behind my toys
To fight for those who would not die for me
I give freely.
Knowing, still going
To reach out.
To do my duty,
Leaving childhood guns behind
Only to find
That they fit so naturally.

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