War wound stories

When that bullet came through
the front, that day

Our buddies up there
stood, strong and hard.
But the enemy shot
proved harder still.
It plowed through them
like a house of cards.

Which is why we all stand
looking at this scar.
We erected it
in their memory,
but the day itself
gave us no such pause
for sentiment, reverencing bravery.

For the enemy fire still burned,
inside, doing damage and pain!
Major artery
blown, torn through
- 'till heroic bone
cracked, and that fire
was caught, by an organ
or two, now cooking internally
wraught.

"We're through!"
We thought!

That's the end.

So we said, as we raced, as we
ought, swarmed in and around
to discuss what to do
with the foe we'd found! But
the enemy again came! Through
like knives!

From our point of view,
and our prisoner extracted
from us! Out right, from our
midst, to some loss
of yet more lives - in the way,
at risk, unawares as they lived
and died, by some instrument
ripped right through.

The enemy’s ways won’t care
for you.

Though we made no monument,
there, it is known: the one at the front
stands for all who fell, from the front
to the organs, from skin to bone. Though
we still don't know who. Who fired! Or why!

Oh, well! With how hard we try and fail,
we find we'll inspire ourselves somehow
- plus the fact we're alive, just to wonder
such stuff.

The kids these days laugh, scoff, shrug it off,
but those who were there that day got

tough.

We had to. You know, if we even could?
- We will not slough it off. Not for us!

No good.

Check the monument, then.

Looking up at this scar
from within beyond belief,
standing here where we are,
just

underneath.

Knowing life is good,

Vowing never forget:

War is grief.

How can we?

If we could