Nancy L. Meek


From the desert floor, one desperate night,
in the heat of battle, where souls ignite,
came futile prayers on blood-soaked knees,
for his time was up, despite his pleas.

From a pool of blood, his last warm bed,
as the choppers swarmed above his head,
came the senseless words of the almost dead,
“I can… smell…… brea… “