Deserted
He would read it later,His letter from his treasure;
I gave him something to look forward to that evening;
It was a thought to treasure
Through the trudge
Of the sand.
That desert of dispute
Where every hand
Could turn from welcome
To hatred
And where every moment was filled
With thoughts of whether fate read
Out your name that day
And some of you would be laid
In a coffin that would never be opened.
Prayers would be prayed
Over it but the family would miss
That last rite:
That goodbye kiss.
The letter came back to him
And a smile budded
On his face
As the bullet thudded
Through his jacket.
He did not feel the ground as he fell.
His commanding officer
Would tell
Of his bravery and courage
And his devotion to duty.
His mother would cry and be proud:
Remembering his own pride when, as a recruit he
Eagerly waited to become
A part of that body of history
Of his regiment, his country:
And to add his story.
His belongings would be returned
To his wife:
A small package
To represent a life.
The unopened letter
She would leave sealed;
She would not be able to read it;
It would have, bullet-like, revealed
To him
Her need
To be
Freed.
13:24, Tue. 07/07/2009.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 879 times
Written on 2009-07-07 at 14:31
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