It Is What It Is

We march our children off to war…

We feel so uncomfortable Saying the word soul.

In the morning:

We dress- Our children For school

We march- Them off To war

In rooms:

Full of- Semi-automatic Clouds of chalk

Full of- The lingering Smell of pencils

And tomorrow:

Take an eraser- To a predictably Bloodied world.

We feel so uncomfortable Saying the word soul.