by | May 19, 2006 | Poetry | 0 comments

The war hero lays there weak and stilled,
At death’s door eighty years he’s filled,
But the essence of his very soul,
Has not begun to reach its goal,
He’d fought bravely in the war,
On the Somme, gassed and more,
He’d got his medals for being brave,
As the enemy charged in a massive wave,
The German soldiers ran in groups of ten,
For as he shot blindly at the running men,
He watched in horror yet filled with hate,
Firing his gun ’til it was too late,
Then when none seemed to stand so tall,
And hardly a man left alive at all,
Many of them cried out in utter pain,
Some putting a bullet into their brain,
Now he thinks, who’s the bravest of us all,
The one to stand or the one to fall.


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