Delicate as a desert flower,
Six foot two, a flood of tears,
Shaking,
a result of experience,
the field of war,
the field with no grass,
The bullet scored him as it flew,
In wanton wishes, for death's cold calling,
she left her mark upon his skin,
A down turned smile cried,
stuck inside his head,
If only they could have put a blindfold on, and shot him proper,
he sooner would be dead,
Not haunted by memories,
Or of pain physical, psychological,
Of dark days in the desert sun.
(C) Livvi