Thursday, November 11, 2010

Last Supper














Oh how I wish the sun could shine
upon this war scarred face of mine.
Instead, all day, I wait in line
attendant on the bullets' whine.
The sky's expression, always grim,
confesses as the light grows dim.
There's blood, not wine, around the rim.
The cup is empty now. The hymn
dies on my lips. The bitter cloud
flays raw my skin and as allowed
the flesh of all my comrades, cowed
where once they marched erect and proud.

When they carry us from the 'plane,
draped in the flag, to hide the pain,
ask if our youths were spent in vain.
Keep on asking. Again! Again!

Completed at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

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