I once knew a little soldier boy
who played with little soldier toys,
Fighting little wars on his own wooden floor.
Until one day he shipped away
like his father once did before,
Fighting someone else’s war
on someone else’s shore.
He survived,
he only dreamed his father would have too,
On the day he came home
I made sure I was the first to greet him.
When I shook his hand I instantly realized
I no longer knew the little boy
who played with little soldier toys.
I found him lying on the cold wooden floor,
Flowing red, having lost his own little war.