Sergeant

Here I am, a legend in my hand,

My brow furrowed at the odd command.

“Take Point C with everything it takes.”

The mission is a suicide attempt!

I look round at my men, cringe for their sakes;

Their faces mud-bespattered, clothes unkempt.

What is this war, this play of battered morals?

A stage of stench, of death, of foolish quarrels.

I wonder why I’m here–a weary thought–

Driven in this corner, pale and drawn.

I meet their gaze, so long with trauma fraught.

“Prepare yourselves, my boys, we march at dawn.”