By Richard Wallace
Heavy shelling and the rattle
through the prism of a battle.
Huge explosions from the ditches,
flying body parts and stitches.
Emotions pushed just so far back
for fear his friends should see him crack;
he left it all on the field
that dreadful day
***
He was petrified and terrified;
a kaleidoscope of fear.
A bloody stump where his arm used to be,
a face that was not for the faint to see.
His plane ride home was a ride from hell,
would his family know him – who could tell?
***
Tylenol and alcohol,
codeine soup for lunch,
No tears to fall, no place to cry,
no place to hide, don’t even try.
The searing pain from a phantom limb
threw a blanket of sorrow over him
***
That blender sounds like machine gun fire;
the same can be said for the washer and dryer.
That’s why he decided to take his life
so he slit his neck with his army knife.
There wasn’t much life left to slip away;
he left it all on the field
that dreadful day.
