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He was dreaming of his youngest daughter who still slept in his arms at days when thunder and darkness consumed the sky. Who would wrap her tiny arms around her fathers neck and cry, to remind him that this day would maybe be their last goodbye.
But the fighting outside got much to heavy and they took him from the ward. So as he said his final prayers to the one and only lord, They pulled him out and put him right up front to board, the fallen, the sick, and those who couldn't take it anymore.
There was little he could do there except clear away the lost blood, hold severed limbs, which made our poor hero very Grim, he handed equipment to nurses and tried not to get rattled as soldiers were baffled, straight in live battle.
His pain cold and selfish, he felt quite small, his reality insignificant, compared to those who fall. Our hero left broken, his comrades laid in sacks; An unannounced father, and a son never coming back. A war fought with nothing gained, a war with lives lost so inhumane.
The sand once brown, now turned around, drenched in red from the lifeless bodies bled. His heart fighting with his head; they all said that God was on his side. That when he killed it was justified.
But what he felt for the war was only bad, for all his friends were sent home in body bags. They told him be strong, be mean, he's not a man, he's a killing machine. Their child at home will scream and cry, for they won't understand the reason why.
He couldn't hide what was beneath; These were the days one could say that even the sky had teeth.
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YOU ARE READING
Pale Soul Sea (#Wattys2018)
PoetryHe would chip away at my cold exterior dodging shards of ice until I was no longer hard, but even though he cracked through the surface. . . My heart would not melt.
