Over Twenty Five Years

I was cleaning my rifle, pistols and my gear;
these were my tools for the past few years.
Now the bores are shiny and bright,
And I brush the sand off those old battle sights.

My webbing was worn and smelled of sweat.
Many hours were logged wearing that vest.
My Ceramic plate armor was flaking away.
I remember it saving me on so many days.

Much like a sword, these tools were my soul,
with an appetite for destruction, my belly is full.
I've seen the world through my mercenary eye
and see the things that would make men cry.

Over a quarter of a century I've carried a gun,
as a cop on the streets or a soldier on the run.
Once filled with innocence, and patriotic heart
but years of robotic duty has torn me apart.

My soul has hardened over the years,
I’ve conquered most of my guilt and most of my fears.
Doing the things that I’ve been trained so well,
But I know deep inside that I’m going to Hell.

I learned how march, how to kill, how to land a chute
And I spent hours lounging while I spit shined boots.
Reacting to orders while sitting in a fog,
Reacting to stimuli like Pavlov’s dog.

I was a Dog of War.  Shakespeare wrote of this,
I learned the Art of War and became a Master Sith.
I profited from chaos and I created order from the insane.
I focused on the mission and I intentionally caused pain.

I was Ronin.  I was Chaos, a Master Sith of the Art.
Now I’m lost in this fuzzy world with a tainted heart.
Never understood, always feared, I was used as a tool of War.
Now I’m home but I know, I won’t go back anymore.