A dark moonless night,
Envelopes and hides the field.
The puddles upon the ground,
Have lost their crimson hue.
The twisted stiffened bodies,
Hidden within deep shadows.

His perch atop the Bell Tower
A lofty lonely isle amid,
A sea of waste and destruction.
His filthy hands still griping
His instrument of death,
His eye straining at the glass
Searching for movement
In the silent depths of death below,
Finger on the trigger.

Three days have come and gone,
Since he climbed those stairs
And took his place among
The pigeons’ and rafters.
He had been a mere boy of
Seventeen three long days ago.
Now he felt a hundred sick,
And tired years old.
And even the pigeons had
Deserted him,
Or been shot to pieces,
From below.

His fingers took inventory,
Only sixteen rounds remained.
He had fired his weapon
Over ninety times and
Never once, had he missed.
Haunting ****** pictures,
Of their devastation continuously
Replayed in his head.

An hour ago he heard
Its treads and engine
Churning in the dark.
The tank had come for him,
Would **** him at first light.

Strangely he felt no fear,
Resigned and willing,
To make of this,
His end final and fitting.
Grown to a man and dead,
All within four days span.


Postscript:
It is a tragedy that any man of any age
is compelled to make that climb, to fire
a weapon, to take a life, to give up his
own. Wars are an abomination.
And sadly it seems mankind will
never understand that.
Somehow we always find another reason.

I see them still,
From time to time,
Their goofy smiles,
Their laughing eyes.
Still hear their *******,
Their growled complaints,
Their farts in the night,
from five bunks down.
The relentless joke telling,
The brotherly jabs.
Still see their sad empty eyes
When no mail from home arrives.

Oh and the lists of things
That they would do,
When back they'd go,
Into the World,
Added to daily, always growing.
Get that new Camaro,
"Set them tires on fire!",
Cruse the strip back home
and pick up chicks.
Put on their Class A,
And strut down the block.
Find that foxy girl from English class,
And make her his wife.
Tell his old man,
to actually "*******!"
We were but boys,
Too eager and green,
Posturing and playing at being men.
What I wonder, would they have become,
Given the chance to grow to a man?

Young lives cut short by ballistic pain.
So now still they linger, boys they remain,
Night visions left in the mud and the rain.

White cotton kisses
I pretend you occupy the space of this  pillow
I remember your navy sheets
I think they kindly absorbed the blood
it was there, somewhere.
beating or gliding within walls of muscle.
This type of loving has become liquid and electrical.
It is certainly electrical.
spiky pains edging fingertips
Strands of copper threaded into the grooves of your fingerprints
It has a real colour. I don't know what that is.
It's weight fits inside your body.
It is manufactured.
Maybe the ***** triggered it.
Or the serotonin shots when I see your face.
All I have with me now is bone dry fabric and wadding

In depth
there is
fear and insecurity...

Therefore
people prefer

The shallow
Tried and tested...

be still,
           be the small silent
                                        calm

be quiet,
       be the small watching
                                        mouse

be pliant,
               be the seed
                         spinning on
                     the wind

be memory
                  be the glint in
                             the wise old
                elephant's eye

be wisdom,
                 be the paradox of
                             the monkeys
                      three

be kind,
            for kindness needs,
                               to never be
             lost or neglected

be strong,
                 be passionate,
                for the world needs
                                strength
              and compassion
in order to grow.
                

but above all,
                      be love.....
            and allow love to be...

in all it's ....
        wonderful,
          guises and capacity's

and these my son,
                are just some
    of the steps

       in being a better man.....