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.


About returntoneverland

All around procrastinator, screw-up extraordinaire.
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