Terry Ireland Poet Rhyme

Bayonet

Long bayonet, blood channel 
Breaks suction to pull loose
After the thrust and twist so it is
Quickly ready for its next use.
Lovingly polished, honed and whet
Of finest steel, Sheffield made
A thing of beauty 
This thirsty blade.

Seeming to quiver in the hand
As though anticipating his thrill
As he patiently waits for
The chance of his next kill.
Clothed all in black
With blackened face
Standing motionless 
In his chosen place.

The watchers watch, monitor
His dreams, read his despair
The experiment conducted 
With precision and great care.
Probing deeply in his mind
To discover why
He gets such pleasure from
Watching others die.

This tormented man
Creation of warring state
Trained to kill without
Remorse or hate.
Nobody prepared 
To take their blame
For what he did
In their cause and name.

The probes record 
His remembered hell
Tick, quiver, in his brain
As he sleeps in his cell
In his mind ready to thrust
And twist his bayonet blade
Long and shining and sharp,
Stainless Sheffield steel made.

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Ilene Bauer September 1, 2022 at 1:19 PM a powerful poem, terry! what an awful way to kill someone (although, is there really a good way?), both for the bayoneter and bayonetee (i doubt if those are words, but you know what i mean)...