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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1461864
Rated: E · Poetry · War · #1461864
Tight narrative poem from a 'new' soldier's point of view
My Haunting Shame…

There’s threat of war,
My commodore;
I’m waiting your command.
I’ve will to fight
For what is right—
God save the Fatherland!

I’ll stand and kill,
Their blood will spill
For freedom of Mankind,
Just wait and see,
I guarantee! 
I’ve locked it in my mind.

We’re on our way,
We left midday
For places near the sun,
Excitement grows,
Adrenaline flows,
There’s no comparison;

We’ll leap through air,
Catch unaware
The enemy within,
I gasp and wait
For the mandate
To jump, with discipline.

Geronimo,
And off I go—
My God!  They’re shooting shells!
I’m coming down
Like some damn clown—
My apprehension swells.

I hit the ground
And make no sound,
I listen for a clue
Of where to go
To get below
The guns…What shall I do?

Thank God! A hole,
Just like a mole
I dig myself in deep,
I take a breath,
The stench of death
Wisps by…I start to weep.

Who’d ever think
To smell such stink
Could nauseate this way?
But burning flesh
Does now refresh
My mind—this is not play.

I hear a voice,
Should I rejoice—
Or could it be the foe?
I listen hard
And then bombard
With bullets high and low.

He comes toward me
In agony,
Then falls and hits the dirt,
His pleading eyes
And groans and sighs
Proves he is really hurt.

I feel bad,
I can’t be sad;
The enemy should die…
He’s just a boy,
I can’t enjoy
His misery – I cry.

I’ve got to aid,
I can’t evade
The pain that I produce,
My help he needs,
From my misdeeds,
So I declare a truce.

I bravely run,
I leave my gun,
And drag him to my hole.
He looks half dead,
His body’s red,
I smile to console.

He’s in such pain –
God, war’s insane!
How can I help this lad?
What can I do
To ease him through?
He looks at me, so sad…

While drifting off
He starts to cough
Up blood - and then he dies.
I stare at him,
My heart grows dim…
His death just horrifies!

I killed a man,
That was the plan,
But now to see his face!
One cannot teach
To kill with speech—
God’s glory, I disgrace.

I stroke his brow
And then I vow
To him, I’ll kill no more.
You were the first,
And now I’m cursed…
Forgive me, I implore.

When I get home
I’m gonna roam
The streets and beg of men
To give up war,
With God adore
A zest to live again.

Man’s biggest sin
Has always been
The need to kill and maim;
I’ve learned first-hand
To take a stand—
I’ll share my haunting shame.

It is my hope
That all can cope
If forced to stand and fight…
It takes strong will
To make a kill—
I’ve not the appetite.

© Copyright 2008 Robin Millstone #TheRhymeMaven (tikkunolam at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1461864