With bags under his weary hazel eyes,
no rest, no sleep, watching the line.
A mound of dirt cluttered with casings,
machine gun on mount, at the ready.
Smoke overhead the sun barely pokes through,
battlefield stays dark, night and day too.
Vultures circle above, barren death marked earth,
unable to feast, no stomach to girth.
Body caked in dirt, empty belly churns,
tattered...
Continue reading...