Colin F. Jones
A MAN OF PEACE
Rage wells up; the senseless killing.
As I stand by; the screams fulfilling,
The desires of murderers, who don’t care;
For in their hearts no love is there.
I the soldier must meet their hate;
To which my heart cannot relate,
I have to slay them kill them dead;
Rip their bellies; destroy their heads,
I who am a man of peace;
Must kill and kill until they cease,
Becoming a part of their vile way,
Stained with the gore of their decay;
Forever fighting with myself,
To restore my slow decreasing health
~ 2 ~
What is my mission; is it to hate,
Is it to decide another’s fate?
For this false elation that I feel
When my hands are filled with lethal steel?
Or is it the coldness; the shock of fear,
The terror surging like a spear,
Through this body already dead,
To feelings directed from my head.
The rage; the screaming fierce face,
Ignominious and crudely out of place,
From where on the pillow it resides,
Alongside the face that is my bride’s…
Who waits for this soldier to return;
A stranger – cold of no concern.
~ 3 ~
He weeps, the Veteran deep inside,
For there he knows something has died,
And it sometimes wells up in a rage,
Like a tiger clawing at its cage,
Causing more pain with every stroke,
Against the bars of steel and smoke,
That he breaks down and weeps some more,
And he knows not what he’s crying for.
For sadness is the only feeling he knows,
Which over time but grows and grows,
Until it, to friends and family, shows,
And through them from his tantrums flows
And he feels deep shame instead of pride,
For somewhere in himself he died.
©Copyright March 14, 2004 by Colin F. Jones