A Soldiers Tale Poem by Steven Cooke

The trembled hand
the twitching face.
A desperate draw on cigarette
looking for courage in a cordite breath.

Huddled in mud protected by
slime filled walls,
these walls of Jericho shake
crumbling into my fear.

My tomb beckons another inspection.
Buried alive under corrupted soil,
a land lords greeting from the
putrid remains of the tenants before.
Did Mother give birth to me for this?

The screams of the howitzer,
Marching in footsteps, stamping it's wrath,
for fear of the dead rising.
And we who are alive, that dare to look
will see the face of death that hides within it's light.

A face I would gladly see,
if bargain I could contemplate
in exchange for silence,
and the solitude of darkness.
Where fear cannot go,
where the cold become's a welcome blanket
for I wish this suffering to end

To hear the guns, all seeking me
to shred my guts with shrapnel scythe
and amputations rip.
To die with blood soaked ears
punctured into silence for man's aggression.

This man placed here by another's ambition
to pay the price for no man's land,
The only thing that is really free,
for dead men will not stop you
from taking a soldier's walk.

Another draw on my cigarette,
and a prayer from my anonymous conscience,
trembles upon humanities lips.
"Gives us this day our daily bread
Though I do not forgive them
For thine is the Kingdom
And men will destroy thy glory
Forever and ever
Amen."