Death Is On The Battlefield Poem by Philip Lore

The shadow glides effortlessly,
Across the golden sand.
Like an eagle soaring,
It drifts from man to man.

What spector is among us calling,
Dressed in black, its hard to see,
Roaming, seeking, as men are falling,
Finger pointing,
Does it look for me?

No visible face,
No footprints in the sand,
Sickle held by a skeletal hand,
A bullet finds its place,
I fall bleeding in the sand.

Trouble hearing, body bleeding,
Struggling to take a breath,
Cold, cold hands embrace my body
I close my eyes to Death.