Colin F. Jones


Death is the better part is it not?
‘Tis seldom that a soldier is simply shot –
He won’t die straight away, he bleeds a bit
While someone tries to swab where he was hit.
The pain of course is awesome, so he screams;
He’s ripped apart by shrapnel, so it seems.
Blood bubbling in his throat while his eyes,
Try desperately to tell you why he cries…
His grip upon your arm is like a vice
As his eyes glaze over once or maybe twice…
Then with a sigh he utters his last breath
And shudders to an early wasted death.
And those who loved him will recall his waxen eyes
And his bloody mattered body and his cries.