Cross-Hairs

A poem about a captured soldier in front of a firing squad.

From The Chronicles of Death

Cross-Hairs

I was standing in the cross-hairs
waiting for the light to fade.
Keeping up those appearances,
one final act in this charade.

My troubles have come to an end;
War will sing her serenade.
God and Jesus can't save me now,
a fallen star in Death's parade.

I am waiting here all alone,
seven rifles from the brigade.
All of them are trained on me,
blood for bullets they will trade.

They'll ask me for my final words
but all the deals have been made.
The end is near and close at hand
as I stand alone in hooded shade.

You never really hear the shot
as the final bill is paid;
when you're standing in the cross-hairs,
waiting for the light to fade.