Fly on hand
born of comrade’s corpse,
the only memory of what has gone before.
The fleas that hide,
slowly drinking my soul,
a world where freedom lies
snug in the recess of my body,
a giving god to them.
And as I curse the itch with embers burn
I peer through the sight once more
waiting for my foe.
For country has made an avenging god
To see the eyes before they close,
knowing that darkness has come.
This tribute of victory
Is mine alone to dream
Though sleep is my victim’s vengeance,
a place where haunting faces
with broken skulls and withered lips
All gather to greet me.
For tomorrow the dream will begin again,
and their words will grow louder
chuckled by feeding rats
which draws the attention of another sight?
for my foe seeks the eye of me.
This harvest is a lousy feast.
Soldiers in limpet ground
shooting at images of man
For reality would tremble the hand
And a miss, is to know the man
In the mist of this no man's land
And what of god
The day is near when we will lower our heads
For to look would be obscene
We criminals of heaven, we disciples of hell.
But no matter,
Our papers are a blessed pass
For king and country comes first
The victors will judge
Hero or assassin,
The victims will argue in heaven
And god will know the failures of man.
Forgiveness was not mine to give
To follow orders, history will condemn
But the last word is mine
And Adam in his sin will answer to me
A soldier of this Great War.
© Copyright 2016 steven cooke. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Other
Short Story / Historical Fiction
Short Story / War and Military
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