Colin F. Jones

DEATH OF A WARRIOR

With a Nimiety of rounds from his colt armalite,
To cover his anxiety as he fled from his plight,
The warrior crashed headlong into water and mud,
At the bottom of the crater all covered with blood.
He lay there alone with blurred vision and pain,
Sobbing with anger in the smoke and the rain.
He reached for a cigarette but his arm wouldn’t move,
He thought “So, what the Hell; I have nothing to prove”
Slowly the pain, grew agonizing and cruel,
His breathing grew sharp as blood reddened the pool
A lifetime of memories flashed through his brain,
Sweet loving thoughts he would not have again.
For he rose through a mist so wonderfully calm,
No more could the bullets and shells do him harm.