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.

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