A Soldiers Blood Drops Heavy On The Wood Pile Poem by Jason Ross

A soldiers blood drops heavy on the wood pile

Virtue has its power
In the hour glass I slip to
In this sand I often dip to
In the early morning hours

A soldiers eyes set bulging
When an instrument came calling
For the horror as he gasped
Found him tearing at his chin

He embraced the rays of light
Tantalizing scorned delight 'No! ',
Some were dancing some were flowing
From this wayward pile of wood

But as he slid into the darkness
His head strewn across pine carcass'
When crimson engulfed the twilight
He found himself there all alone

For his face had formed a puddle
Where his reflection confirmed the trouble
He felt the warmest little touch of sun
A perfect pillow his service gun
And a bandage where new stubble had began


Jason Ross


© Jason D Ross, All rights reserved