What strange creatures we are

setting traps for our own young
using words as spoor to mark the trails
leading them to their excruciating fate–
call it the war to end all wars
call it the good war
call it a war of liberation
desert storm desert shield
and knowing that we lack the power
of regeneration
using our clever little minds
to design plastic limbs from
the remains of extinct forebears
hiding their pain from our sight
And then each cycle of twelve full moons
choosing the interim
from one dawn
to one twilight
trotting them out
yet one more time
in their quaint uniforms
making them shuffle before us
to grovel for our gracious thanks
to disappear back into the deep forest
of our collective forgetting
so much dust
so many ashes