death in the front line

our armies advance, they
do not know
the meaning of
"death in the front line", and
even if they did,
they wouldn't care...
me, up on my
high
horse, gun in it's
holster and knife in
my hand, me
with my shiny medallions
and generals' stars, me
with my hardened heart
and weathered, leather
skin; i
yell to the front line
CHARGE
and they do,
and you,
with your small words
and buttonless vest, you
with your blue-eyed
vacancy and penniless
pockets, you
die by the front lines hands,
trampled by the charge
of a general's chance,
killed by a war
of worlds and circumstance;
and i, in my
fancy blues and
sly smile, i
mask my disappointment
behind the glint
of a blood-soaked sword.
i guess your death
prevents you seeing
my award.

k.