A Statistic's Last Words Poem by Matt Pocock

My calling came upon the hour of noon.
For when, they said, my time will finish soon.
And as I lay upon the camping bed,
I knew that very soon I would be dead.

My senses came to me in sharp relief
My breath, my love, my soul came all apiece.
I heard the whisper of the southern breeze
My captain and my God began to leave.

To this day I've held out for'n afterlife.
I b'lieved all more throughout those gunshot nights.
But as we struck the top, I hit the ground;
I was the first of squadron to go down.

The pain was heartbreak, lost love, packed inside
A bullet, left me no chance to survive.
And as I lay upon the camping bed,
I knew that very soon I would be dead.