Don’t worry too much that someone isn’t having their throat cut
while you sit on your couch,
while you flick through the channels,
While you peacefully slouch.
Don’t worry too much that there’s no-one beyond the wall
while you turn the next page,
while you inwardly rage,
and you do nothing at all.
Don’t worry too much that some hold the tide
while you splash in the shallows,
while you pray at All Hallows,
While you comfortably hide.
Don’t worry too much that their names are unknown
while you make your donations,
while you curse those cruel nations,
While they die alone.
Don’t worry too much that young men are dying
while you swallow the Kool-Aid,
With the price only they paid,
While our leaders are lying.
Don’t worry too much while you sleep fast tonight
that you’ll not wake in the morning,
to a new day that’s dawning,
That you’ll not be all right.
Our leaders sit in comfort while our young men and women put themselves in danger attempting to fix their incompetence. Armchair experts write poetry and advice to anyone who will listen, imagining they know what the streets of Kabul might be like. A small group of silent men and some women work tirelessly in ways that will never be reported in their own lifetime to save life and take life, in order to save life. They will come home quietly unannounced and Un-flagged to a nation of virtue signalling ignoramuses who imagine they could do what they do simply by thinking about it in a bloody armchair. Many of the silent actors will descend into madness and drunkenness, some will make good but none will get the credit they deserve and all will have to live with what they did and saw with no thanks or recognition. While every tom dick and harry knows better than those who can never speak.
One thought on “Behind the Lines”
I had first posted this poem on an online site some of you may be familiar with called Write Out Loud, it used to be quite a place for freedom of speech and open mindedness. Some time ago I was unceromoniuosly deleted from that site when I was posting under the name of Wolfgar. I had hoped to continue posting under another name “Sullimani” however when the fascistic old men at WoL decided they knew my identity they deleted this poem without any warning or reason. That action says so much about the type of people they truly are. If you ever have the misfortune/opportunity to interact with their enlightened higher echelons you will discover they are mostly middle aged to older desk bound bores who sit like oracles hoarding the little power they have, and taking great delight in frustrating many people with genuine good intent. I wrote this at a time my mental health was in dire straits, it seems they could not detect the trauma between the lines and saw fit to add to my troubles by wiping the thoughts clear from public screens (yours/ours) It is fair to say that those men should give me a very wide berth if ever they see me in their proximity.