DEATH IS MY BATTLEFIELD

In life, there’s a small animal
That creeps down my shoulders
Phantom and nearly invisible from the eyes
Of the understanding, yet concealed
From those who understand all things.
My chest burns with a fever,
A heart stricken hand clamped around my neck
Waiting for the rhythmic pulse to stop
A shroud of death covers my eyes
Like a blindfold, and my soul
Pushes me along a winding road made of flesh
I can feel the road breathing underneath me.
Here, thousands of young solders lie
Face down in a bed of bayonets,
I can’t help but cringe at the very sight
And for this I am damned.
The smell of dying friends
Rise from the cold October morning
Where the battle was fought
And the familiar cries of ghosts
Ring inside my head as if I were fighting too
In a battle where I will die again-

-Brian Grisham, 1995