LOST IN WAR
BY Ben Siragusa



What stench drives farther into field,

the fruits of war I fear,

score kept in bodybags, and tears,

men reduced to boys, then back again.

Nameless and faceless dead, the fodder of war,

discolor in hues of red and tan, all they touch,

I wonder if the night is becoming colder.

Hours of life ending battle, theirs for now,

soon mine, as I lie prostrate, cryptic by design,

feigned death my stalking horse, but fear has a scent.

How vulgar, desolate, and sad

the burned land punished with shell, the loss suffered

by mother and child in untold agony, in the stilled clock of war,

I wonder if the nights are getting longer.

The air, noxious with decay moves closer,

silent patter of prayer, bestows but moments of comfort,

in the midst of waste and paralyzing fear,

I hear the "beach boys", playing off in the distance,

can this be, my mind is numb,

I smell burgers and fries, I hear laughter ring out,

I wonder if the nights are getting to me.

The slow chain-like clink and grind of tank tread, wakes me to terror,

accompanied by pounding feet, and language of the enemy,

I smell fuel, I'm in the throes of death,

I'm numb, save for being so very cold, and afraid,

my shroud will be army green, how ugly a thought,

what a sad passage, I wish I could hug my Mom and Dad,

I wish I could say goodbye, what will they imagine of my death,

Lord, don't let them suffer, I wonder if death will hurt,

I need wonder no more.



This poem was by written by Ben Siragusa of Liverpool, New York.



1999 Ben Siragusa

All rights reserved.