slicing open the thick plastic
of my MRE,
with the crooked instrument of death
I was issued,
swallows up precious time alloted me.
sewing ripped GI tissue
with 30 silk
pity's me death's power
medics seldom feel.
after a while,
I see enemies wavering, crying, splattering
missing their babies
and wondering who really rules them,
if their Mama's miss them;
will their papa's be proud of them?
My God, he looked right at me.
He looked right into my eyes.
politicians and generals in clean shirts
allieviate a father's worry
with grandios lies,
smiling as they are buzzed by flies
swarming around the bodies at their feet.
the exceptable level of casualties.
my commrades are
18 year old boys, still suckling, now -
dead from their hearts exploding,
torn up by claymores and missles
that put food on our plates,
made at the assembly line in town,
that pays the rent...
kissing their girls as the lights go out
promising their siblings to return,
all of their memories in a bag.
Black, body type, zipped and sealed.
my comrades, and enemies alike
form the hill of success-
the pinnacle of manhood,
with their lifeless bodies,
that leaders climb on their way to hell.