There is no such thing as Absolute Truth.
It is neither a matter of age or youth.
It’s simply a matter of pragmatism,
Arguably even atavism;
A cycle of contrast in living and dying,
Two ends of a life most preoccupying.
By the flinch of a trigger, a single path wrecked;
The space in-between draped with Cause- Effect,
An impact greater exponentially
Than anyone ever foresaw it would be,
This uncompromising phase of contemporary history
Shrouded for decades in glorious mystery.
Is there perhaps a Luck of the Draw
In the terrible business of going to war?
Is it perhaps the passage of time
That redefines Active Service as crime?
Is it the Winning and Losing that matters
No matter how many lives are shattered?
Is it a game of mathematical proof
In which politicians remain aloof,
Somehow inured, disassociated
From the loving lives they’ve decimated?
Is it simple fact of life
That learning primarily comes from strife?
Is it, like soccer, a game of two halves,
Especial to him who has the last laugh?
Is it a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors,
With which the protagonist hopes to deliver
His personal construction of justice and peace:
An infinite list of those ‘Deceased’
Who lay down their lives for monarch and peers,
Fading from memory over the years?
In no particular order- mindful that other published perspectives are available