Colin F. Jones


How does it feel to watch a soldier die;
To see his life bubble from his breast,
To watch the frigid roll of his white eye
And see deaths evil germ his soul infest?
He, shattered, lays, a wasted torrid mound
Of rotting flesh: flame burning in his coat.
One of many dissembled on the ground
Where in the mud and blood the leaches float.
How could one feel beyond the fear and shock
That drains his mind of thought with awful haste
And jolts his heart that ticks a booming clock
While in his mouth, his spit turns foul to taste?
One may well ask but he will not reply
Though a thousand times he’ll see that same man die