He stood alone upon the hill, christened with a soldier’s blood
His face a painted odyssey of camouflage paint and grime
A rifle weighing heavy still smoking from the fight
Everywhere are bodies his stomach rumbles at the sight
He lights a smoke as he finds a rock to sit on in the calm
He’s not concerned with cancer just a day that’s been too long
The flag blows limply in the breeze that rises with the smoke
A crackle from a two-way, big wigs voices like a song
He sees soldiers stacked like firewood in bags of plastic black
He sees the chopper coming in, to take the dead-men back
The foreign enemy have fallen and there’s victory in the air
Then the soldier sees a dead young boy and he wipes a misty tear
He’s a hero the press proclaim, when to stateside he’s returned
He stands before his leader to receive the medal he has earned
His salute is razor crisp, his eyes hide his true belief
It’s later though on civie-street, he takes his life to end his grief…
Chanti
heartwrending write--powerfully and emotionally penned--well done!
(((HUGS))) and love, karla. :(