A Poem for Ten Hours

I recognize my brother-in-arms
So I am surprised by the tactic:
A resounding quip about stauts
(and considerable lack thereof)
a sudden and unmediated attack
which followed a simply stated truth.
But in this chill of the Last Days
we tend to wield our words like
misappropriated claymores on
a blood-sodden battlefield
that has long been conceded.
Oblivious, we misguided warriors,
to the corpses and silence and stench:
We thrust, parry, and slash,
Our loyalties forgotten in the
heady blood-lust of resentful retribution.
We struggle each for the advantage
as we trip on and tangle with
the stiffened limbs of the fallen
our weapons, sharpened and cagey,
are swung amid excuses of "truth"
when our truth has never been spoken aloud
for, in Days Before, there was no need.
And I, this lowly patriot,
who expects no promotion or rank,
drop my ill-begotten sword
and contribute my tears to this visceral mud
knowing well that divided, we must fall.
I, this lowly patriot,
whose status was never contested,
expose my belly to Love's wretched fate
and wait for the End of Days.