In War
In dank, smelly mud I sat A broken head upon my lap, Red-blackened blood trickling From a straight nose now broken; From a mouth twisted and joined Among other small holes That had ripped soft flesh From a youthful face Swollen eyes then spoke to me. "You'll be O.K.," I answered. His smile was gentle like, As war-aged eyes once again Reached out and touched my soul. "It doesn't hurt anymore," "Well, hardly at all," he lied. Eyes meeting again, I swallowed, Then spit out dirt and blood That I knew was never mine! "Don't hurt at all," he again said, With a belying faint smile From his war-ravaged bed. "I'll make it for sure..." "Of course! For sure," I then lied. "I'm cold," he confided to me; "Just a while longer," I replied. Then those tired eyes did close As my hand he gently squeezed. "You just rest now," to him I said, And it was then That I knew He was dead.
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