by J.J.
Mud, blood and loneliness,
Anguish, toil and fear.
All this and more distort the soul,
When death is calling near.
And when the sting of battle comes,
It chills you to the bone.
It drives away all mundane thoughts,
To leave you there alone.
If perchance you make it through,
With not one single scratch.
You pray for warmth and a hot meal,
Never looking back.
But one thing is for certain,
You'll never be the same.
Every time you close your eyes,
The hell will come again.
For blood upon your hands will wash,
But never from your soul.
And you a child of seventeen,
GOD, you're so damned old.
*J.J.* © 1999
