The man next to me, holds a picture of his wife and cries.
I crouch lower for the one who moves, dies.
I stare into my scope at the ridge before me.
The dawn breaks to light the enemy for all to see.
They crawl, here and there. There is no wind.
As I let go of my breath, I say a prayer for the man's death.
My finger presses against the trigger, for a bullet to send.
As I hear the shot go off, the world stands still.
Pink Mist filling the sky. A shot of skill.
Those left are next. One shot. One kill.
We pick them off, I let a man run before I fired.
Does he not know? Run from a sniper you'll only die tired.
The man next to me must have got what he desired. For he went home that day, a feat to be admired.
If not for the fact he lay in a casket. I do not cry.
There are many more lives for me to take. Even if only for my families sake.
I do not care for death, nor do I wish for suffering. Yet this war has only started and has much more to bring.
A priest once asked me, how can I be so cold?
I answered as truthfully as I knew how.
"A wise man once said to me:You want to stay alive? Then do as your told! Keep your head down, always be bold. You're the salesman, they the customer. Now get these bullets sold."