A free-verse poem about the glory of war. |
As I lie here, my mind flashes back to when as small boys we battled with wooden swords to play death as brave warriors, all the while imagining making our parents proud, our peers envious. As teenage boy-men we followed news of the war (there is always a war somewhere) with intense interest, all the while imagining ourselves gallant heroes who impressed other men and won the hearts of all the adoring girls. As young men we listened to the politicians, with their nationalistic rhetoric, their call to arms, their promise of victory and glory to be won. We listened to the old men’s war stories. We bought in; we volunteered. We were so proud. We were so eager. We wanted to be bathed in the glory of war. As soldiers we fought bravely, fought all day on this field for our lives among the chaos, the dust and blindness, among the horrendous sounds and smells of battle, among the sheer terror that is man doing his all to succeed at killing man in fury and unabated hatred. For this we trained? For this we endured months of hardship, loneliness, boredom, and worry? Who imagined it’d be like this? Where are all the braggarts now? All their brave talk? All I hear are the sounds of men scared, men in pain, men dying all around me. All I see is misery, pure misery. Now I lie dying; I feel my blood seeping into the hot sand. I think of home and family. I think of all the experiences I shall miss. I think of God and what lies ahead. As the sun sets heralding darkness, I look around. I squint my eyes. I cannot find it. Nowhere do I see the glory of war. Please check out my ten books: http://www.amazon.com/Jr.-Harry-E.-Gilleland/e/B004SVLY02/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0 |