A
plastic soldier, broken, on the floor
Lies crushed and ruined, weapon arm askew.
Its head is filled with
plastic dreams of
war,
As from it drains the only
life it knew.
And at the
helm of
legions stands a child
With
feral eyes,
ambitious and
insane:
A fierce and proud
commander, but beguiled
By
power,
wealth, and
military reign.
And so the army, plastic
green, belies
The other, much the same, but plastic
tan.
Reduced to
plastic by the
general's eyes,
The tired
pawn is nonetheless a man.
A
dying man who, fingering his
knife,
Contemplates his
plastic dreams of life.