• He hit the floor
    Like a mirror – smashed to pieces,
    Blood spilling over his shiny medals,
    Meaning nothing now.

    The weapon fell from his limp hands,
    Worse than any toy the boy held before,
    Men trampled him,
    Grim faces uncaring,
    Meaning nothing now.

    Wounds and scars past healing,
    Propaganda proven wrong,
    Shouting and swearing but no-one is caring,
    It means nothing now.

    The boys crawl home,
    The victory half hearted,
    But still the child with the blood on his medals,
    Lay dead on the ground.
    He meant nothing now.

    Glory and gory are only a single letter apart.


    (c) Katie Nicholls 1/4/09