Blood is blood is blood
Dripping from unattended wounds. Squelching in the mud
My boots are blue. Mind! The sight of a boot, sud-
colored, patches of gray showing through the mud
and all that blood
Be it brother, father, or son, your son, the tender young bud
about to bloom, risen with all that care, I swear, this isn't what I intended--
Shoot.
Point that black gun, poised on your arm, hold it steady,
poisoned bullet makes poisoned wound, make it ready,
wait and watch his eyes flare, his mouth open, his arm rising slowly,
and shoot when his hand tells you to--tells you as it falls, free
from thinking, free from crying, falling free
Yet still aching, falling as we, the soldiers, we, the aimers, we
shoot. The bullets whiz regardless, heartless, heedlessly
Boring into the flesh and mind and soul of the liberty tree.
Shoot.
Weren't we fighting
for it? The liberty tree. As I lay, with my stomach cold against the pit, filling
with all that mud and blood, watching
all these young souls, for indeed they were so many so young, flailing
Twisting, thrashing as their last breath leaves them, releasing
their silly souls, it's hard to believe that we are, indeed, fighting
for the liberty of a thousand more poor souls.
Shoot.
The commander's silken white glove has fallen.
Shoot.
The children run across the field, blindly stepping on mine after mine.
Shoot.
The little cross is pointed at its target.
Shoot.
Father! someone once cried, why can't I hear it, why can't I remember it.
Shoot.
Bam.
Comments (2)
Mokona Go said
at 7:02 pm on Mar 24, 2010
cuz' they are a type of poem
Volkes_Wagon said
at 10:10 pm on Mar 24, 2010
*shock. omgoodness thats true.
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