“Man at his Worst”

I open my eyes,

The sound stops,

No longer lead flies.

The screams quell,

Smoke no longer fills my lungs,

Why the pause in this living hell?

I stand,

My legs like rubber,

Barely upright,

I set off across the battle scared land.

I see the pain,

The anguish on men’s faces,

What was the plan?

Why engage with these enemy forces?

It serves no purpose,

No higher meaning to strike men like me.

I see a friend,

Legs blown off,

Tears like rivers,

Blood soaking the dirt.

Why does hate run through us so?

Why do I continue this?

This pointless strife against another man.

Dust rising through the air like swarms of knats,

Scrap metal halted in its spray from a tank’s shell.

Blood as thick as molasses clouding my sight,

Men’s mouths open in terror and pain.

I saw an enemy,

He was the same as me,

His face dirty,

His hands gripping his M4 were bloody,

His eyes wet and gritty.

My hands start shaking,

Why would I kill this man?

He is like me,

His skin the same,

His hair the same,

So what that he is from a different country.

He probably has a family,

Just as many who fight on this day

I walk on,

I come upon a man with a machine gun,

His eyes cold and fierce,

So maybe people are different in war,

But humans do not enjoy killing.

Our conscience,

Our being,

Our heart struggles against such violence,

Such inhumanity,

Right?