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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · War · #2234345
The story of a soldier.
         
Who is a soldier without his orders,
When all the enemies are gone,
When he grows up after crossing the borders,
What does he do when he lives on?

This is the story of soldier Jack,
The little boy that was enlisted at five,
With a gun in his hand and a bag on his back,
This is the story of how he survived.

Little tin soldiers, no time for tears,
No mommies for you, forget your fears,
Or today you will die in the mud, far from home,
Today you will die with your peers, but all alone.

What do you do when your friends are dead,
When you've seen one of them lose their head,
When you've been tortured by hot iron bars,
What do you do, when you're left alone, with your scars?

They marched, they sang, the air sirens rang,
The little tin soldiers were frightened,
They were ambushed, told to lie on the ground,
A deadly silence as the tension heightened.

What do you do when you think you will die,
Do you act like you were trained or break down and cry,
When there is no foreseeable hope left what would you do,
Kill yourself, or try to make it through?

Little tin soldiers, do you realize the truth?
No pretend death for you, this isn't a game,
You've run out of life, that was your youth,
On your belly, waiting for the command, "Take Aim".

They stripped them bare; they bound their hands and feet,
They took great care, in hiding the trip to the camp,
By the end of the week, only three of them were left,
Starved, tired, with dead bodies, and floor made of damp.

They lived in a small room; they slept on a single sack,
The leader came in and stared at them all in turn,
Jack looked away and so did another boy, the third glared back,
The leader smirked and said to him; "You will learn"

This third boy was fifteen years old, so it seemed,
He stood up and glared, and the rage in his eyes gleamed,
Two of them tied his hands to a wooden pole, by the door,
He was hanging by his hands, his feet just touching the floor.

What does a little tin soldier do when he grows up,
With all the horrors locked away in his head,
When every time he sleeps he can hear the screams,
When every time he blinks he can see the dead?

The leader left and returned with a grin on his face and an iron bar,
He heated it up until it was gleaming red, using coals from a jar,
He faced the hanging boy and smirked at him, twisting the bar in his hand,
He ran it along the boy's bare flesh, and said; "Now you will understand"

Little tin soldiers, your innocence snatched away,
No more fresh daises, or light of day,
Mommy can't kiss it better, no not this time,
Daddy can't fix this, for you're involved in war crime.

He hit the boy's torso again and again,
Tears in his eyes but no screams of pain,
The beating stopped, but not the end,
They set him against a wall, and forced him to bend.

The boys stayed in that camp for 20 years before someone came,
They were almost dead and couldn't remember their name.

Little tin soldiers, trained to kill, one by one they fall,
Little tin soldiers, cut down from two-hundred to two, answering the call,
With a gun in their hands and bags on their backs,
These boys leave their homes, never to come back.

Now Jack is an old man, he wonders down the street,
He doesn't talk much, only mumbles,
He doesn't smile or laugh, He has no family to talk to,
Kids call him names; they don't care what he went through,

My name is Jack; I was a soldier at five,
I am now 70 and still alive,
I have written this for whomever to know,
I can only just about survive.

I will leave it in my apartment, on the kitchen table,
Then I will get my coat, shuffle as well as I am able,
To the bridge, and jump into the sea,
And that shall be the last you will hear from me.

This is the story of soldier Jack,
The little boy that was enlisted at five,
With a gun in his hand and a bag on his back,
This is the story of how he died.
                   

© Copyright 2020 Andrea Jones (findyourfear at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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