Poetry

Fly on hand
born of comrade’s corpse,
the only witness of what has gone before.

The fleas that no longer hide,
slowly drinking my soul,
a world where freedom lies
snug in the skin of my filthy body,
I am a giving god to them.

And as I curse the itch with embers burn
I peer through the sight, once more
waiting for my foe.
For country has made an avenging god.

To see the eyes before they close,
knowing that darkness has come.
This tribute of victory
is mine alone to dream

Though sleep is my victim’s vengeance,
a place where haunting faces
with broken skulls and withered lips
all gather to greet me.

For tomorrow the dream will begin again,
and their words will grow louder,
ranting through the buzz of flies,
chuckled in the mouths of rats
which draws the attention of another sight?
For my foe seeks the silence of me.
This harvest is a lousy feast.

We soldiers in limpet ground
shooting at images of man,
for reality would tremble the hand
and to miss, is to know the man,
in the mist of this no man’s land.

And what of god?
The day is near when we will lower our heads
for to look would be obscene,
we criminals of heaven, we disciples of hell.

But no matter,
our papers are a blessed pass
for king and country comes first
and fear is for the living,
as dying is for the brave

The victors will judge
hero or assassin.
The victims will argue in heaven
and God will know the frailties of man.

Forgiveness was not mine to give,
to follow orders, history will condemn.
But the last word is mine
and Adam in his sin will answer to me
A soldier of this Great War.