Nancy L. Meek


In fitful sleep he squirms
fetally crouching over there
too far from too-short arms
to reach him in his despair

I hear him softly moaning
praying for the sun to rise
lids shut, in battle groaning
hands flailing darkening skies

Beads of sweat lace his brow
as he screams his buddy’s name
but his buddy doesn’t answer now
fallen victim to the game

The stakes are much too high
The cost is buried deep
in a grave exhumed each night
by a buddy who cannot sleep

Morning brings a quiet day…
silence always follows death
Nighttime brings the bloody fray
the scope of Hades’ breadth

The daily paper brings no hope
of ways to end the war
its tongue flicks against the slope
as it slithers to our own front door

War, it seems, will always be…
as long as evil rules the day
Its fangs spewing venom… free
to poison whom it may