A cold, hard gust of wind follows a man
barreling down a hill, a rifle in his hands. He weaves around black silhouetted trees with his comrades close behind.
I taste gunpowder on my lips as he loads
his gun.
White smoke drifts to my nostrils, the smell of that burning town below.
Only chaos exists. A shout as he charges, slashing and shooting, taking souls he has no right to apprehend.
Somber and regret fills his young heart as he sees what his actions cost, lying in the dark grass. He cannot hate these men
anymore, knowing that they were in the same shoes he was in, that he was as
much the enemy as they were.
But on that cold fall night, he had to fight.