Homecomming

When it comes to war as humans,

It seems that we are drawn.

For millions of causes, 

For thousands of countries,

For hundreds or years,

Man has fought since it's dawn.

No matter the reason,

No matter the season,

War is a sport of young men. 

We've fought and died 

For a patriot's pride

In killing without end. 

We go to answer questions.

We raise them in ourselves. 

"Am I strong and fast and smart enough?"

"Does my courage measure up?"

"If I am called to sacrifice, will I make that stand?"

"When I come home, when the job is done, can I call myself a man?"

What we don't know going in, 

Before we pass the test, 

With or without war, 

The answer would be yes. 

But then you know. 

And once you see, 

The lesson burns your mind. 

Appalled you find, 

The beast inside,

That allows you to survive.

It leaves you asking questions, 

More than once before.

Because the lines are blurred,

And ever obscured,

When violence is the norm.

Is there any good in me? 

Do I really care? 

Does my darkened mind make me blind to the world outside my stare?

Am I evil? 

Or is evil what I've done? 

Am I the hero in chains? 

Or a villain who reigns, destroying everyone?

Are the sins of my past etched on my soul like a paradigm of pain carved in marble? 

Or drawn on my skin like lines in the sand awaiting the tide to erase them?

Do I have a greater destiny, or have I outlived my worth?

This is the burden of those who've been shown.

The silent cross of those who know. 

This is coming home.