I remember my father crying

When it was time for me to leave—

For me to learn to kill

At only eighteen.

To load, shoot, reload,

Until it was mechanical,

I no longer had to think.

You see, the problem we face

Is that we no longer think.

We function mechanically,

But the flesh on my fingers

Does not resemble brass

On the rounds

That I send down range,

Black targets—

Not the same as men.

Obedience mistaken for loyalty,

Propaganda mistaken for Truth,

Indoctrination mistaken for discipline,

And my hands—

Mistaken for machines.

Yes, there is a veil

Pulled over our eyes,

So thick,

We do not recognize

When we send our strongest and bravest

To die.

You see, the problem we face

Is that we no longer think

About the brave men

Turning into brass.