Alone on a ridge in France. A World War II poem.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A lone soldier realizes the situation

Submitted: January 13, 2013

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Submitted: January 13, 2013

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Along a ridge he stands so tall. To feel the wind on his face, The smell of corpses fill his nostrils.

A war so fulfilling yet blind to the peak. They know not what the grunt endures, They know not what the grunt foresees.

Physical blood upon the hands of the grunt. Psychological blood upon the hands of the officer. Figurative blood upon the hands of the senator.

No matter an occasion, the grunt follows. A mighty hand of justice, Holding that M1 Garand.

The speach of a tyrant must be silenced. Silenced like the demons at the grunts mind, Awarded off and held at the gates of he'll itself.

Complete silence as they take over. Madness consumes the grunt like a wave of sorrow, \"No more killing! No more killing!\" The grunt screams.

Insanity takes over as God takes the enemy's tainted soul. For this grunt of enraged madness had no way out, On a plane of terror and hellish rage took over as he took another life...


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