The War Trodden Bones

They sent the children out to war and felt no guilt over it.
They marked their graves with their false tears and whispered behind bloody fingers condolences to the parents.
They wore black to signify the grief they felt over their charges being gone
But in the middle of the night, they laughed and drank until they could barely walk.
And isn't it funny that the children are six feet under,
Burnt carcasses lost somewhere in the woods,
Empty coffins and wilting flowers...
And the adults are still having the time of their lives.
The children have been mourned but not really.
The children should have never been sent to the front lines.
And this could be a story about how children are forced to grow too soon,
About how they are made to take up responsibilities meant for someone a little older
And a lot more world-weary.
I write this instead to villainize and commemorate
Because the adults you trust are marking your graves
And the children who trust will never see home again.