Fighters
We, the fighters, when?
Us, innocent men
Ordered to fight,
filling with fright.
We can’t pretend,
or even defend.
After the order,
there is only disorder
Bullets in our head.
Down amongst the dead.
Down, we were called.
Down, we were pulled.
Down to the dead.
Final tears shed
Copyright © Annabeth Chase | Year Posted 2015
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