Left

Dirt, fresh and wet
covers the ground
we march on.

The grey sky
hangs above the heads
of soldiers.

A shot, and another
rings like bees
past my ear.

My hand grabs yours
as I run
avoiding fire.

I hold nothing
as I fall into dirt,
on my knees.

A bullet in my back,
I turn with blurry eyes,
your silhouette there.

No man
should ever be
left behind.

You hold the smoking gun,
look at me,
and turn away.

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About returntoneverland

All around procrastinator, screw-up extraordinaire.
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