First Blood

Posted on February 16, 2013

2


On a dusty hot day in the desert sands
He looks in shock at his hands
Unsure of what just occurred
It all seems like a blur

For first blood he did take
On his first tour that day
A numbness he does feel
As he took his first kill

No training prepared him for this
Something inside now very amiss
Taken from him, torn away
Leaving him cold, full of rising self-hate

But he continues on doing as ordered
To save the weak from those that murder
Never really counting the cost
To himself or comrades, humanity sometimes lost

For he’s been trained to fight for others
Those that have sisters and brothers
The innocent and weak who can’t fend for themselves
From those who put these people through hell

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Posted in: Poetry