Death of a Soldier
By grumpy3445
The young man grips his rifle tightly dust from the road fills his nose closer now, the firing sounds stopping, his team jumps out they approach the slaughter it is their job to be the butcher mountains loom, overshadowing mortar fire, the sharp concussion bullets whizing randomly explosions rock the slopes above fire and death, the song of the hour the horrible works of engineers releasing foul forces that rip and shred up into this death machine, he goes raising his rifle, he fires a man dies he does not see it but a mortar has hit not far from him pieces of him litter the ground and on his team, his friends many years they trained together and now they pick up whats left to send to his family and upward, into the darkness, they melt dealing death, from the shadowsThis is for those soldiers (especially the Special Forces) who died in Afghanistan in the last few days. You are dead, but not forgotten. You will never know this poem; it is for the living. It is to better appreciate your sacrifice, which has taken your life, when you had so much left to live. John Written March 4th, 2002 © on Mar 04 2002 01:03 PM PST 18 • 0 • 1
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"The young man grips his rifle tightly..."