In Pieces

June 24, 2008
By Megan Foster, Littleton, CO

Shots fired
exhausted and tired.
Soldiers march along
wondering between right and wrong.
With each bullet fired they try to dismiss
the idea that death actually exists.
Hope begins to die away
because from themselves they start to stray.
Nothing but lies and deceit
happiness becomes obsolete.
Battlefields covered with blood
soldiers bodies strewn through the mud.
While prisoners are killed for any misbehavior
the wounded crawl along praying for a savior.
The dead and the dying lay side by side
and yet no relief can anyone provide.
Hours ago gun fire raged up around
now dead bodies lay heaped in a mound.
One wounded soldier that was left, cries out
and with not a soul about,
he utters in the darkness the bitter truth,
“In the end was it right to strike down the youth
Because leaders of men could not agree
over people of a certain pedigree.
So off to a foreign land they send us here to fight
and assure us we will make it back alright.
We spend months and months hoping the gunfire will cease
praying to make it home to our families in one piece.
Out on the battlefield our souls seem to be ripped apart
and you question if any soldier has a heart.
While among the people you have killed a part of you breaks free
and buries itself among all the debris
And so now blown apart I sit waiting for a visit from The Grim.”
He paused for a moment as he waited for Death to clasp the iron fists around him.
And muttered to himself, wishing his family could hear his final adieu
and secretly agreed with Death that his visit to him was long overdue.
His last thoughts began to roam
and he cried out for the familiar surroundings of his home.
Then he grimaced and said,
“Be happy my dearly departed friends that you have fled,
Because in truth those who don’t die on the field
return home and are never truly healed.”

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