Jack

A poem about a soldier

We stood our ground, on that fateful day,
Our death date named, the 18th of May,
Bang say the guns, of the oncoming fleet,
Through the hell comes, the ominous sound of “Retreat!”

Most did not make it; they fell then and there,
I’ll never lose sight of, that cold lifeless stare,
Survival of the fittest, is what some say,
Slaughter of the weakest, on the 18th of May.

The horrific scene before me, the would be heroes lay dead,
Some of the fiends had decided, to mash up a boy’s head,
Fight or die, some people might say,
Fight until you die, on the 18th of May.

Their charge was followed by sickening scrapes of bone to steel,
I glare in his eyes; does he even have the ability to feel?
The dust soon settled, a handful of us alive,
Our men were nettled, Tired from their strive.

They made us kneel down, they laughed and they jeered,
He pointed his gun at us; he wanted to be feared,
One of my men smirked, a bullet, through his head,
His body fell, he made another, for the list of the dead.

He shot them all, he did not care,
The man’s dying call, fading in the air,
Dying with pride, some people will say,
We lay dying in the mud, on the 18th of May...