Wesley D. Willis
MISSING IN ACTION
The nickel silver shine of moons,
Whose deathly flying pellets dart,
But death is real amongst platoons,
The stench, I draw in breathless art.
Vietnam back in sixty four,
And sixty-five, uncloak the dead,
The phantoms scythe, exist in war,
Proclaiming death its swiftness bled.
In heated battle far from home,
Your love explodes my hearts desire,
Entombed with shrapnel’s falling dome,
My love remains in this expire.
©Copyright 2003 by Wesley D. Willis