Submitted by Harold Strauss
He wasn’t really himself, not anymore.
Whenever he joined the ranks, he got lost
In a demonstration of blue.
And war wasn’t war like he thought it’d be.
Not endless struggle with only a moment to breathe
But stretches of precious nothing
And then flickers of light and sound
And then the sprayings of a friend
Who caught one in the chest
Who sunk into the mud
At different depths, depending
On all they stuffed away
In their bags. In their rifles.
In their hearts. In their throats.
And where were they taking themselves, anyway?
Into the waves of grey, to the warring side?
Or into the earth from which they came?