We are all human

My poem about the silent fathers has arisen from stories both told to me from colleagues and friends, and recorded endlessly in novels. War is hell. 

We take either idealistic young people, or rebels to begin with, or financially diminished persons in hope of a leg up on life, and we pound into their every waking breath the concept of kill or be killed. We mold them into resistance to civility.

And when/if they return, we say, good luck with life on Main Street. And the internal stew bubbles ominously.

Sometimes "normal" life returns.
Sometimes the fire within blazes to consume all in its jagged path.

But whatever is visible above the surface the internal landscape must be littered with landmines.

Now there is talk of more war. Why can we never see beyond the dollars to the real price tag?