He wrote his wife
from battle's field
how he cleaved through
the solider's head,
and how now, he said,
I see his eyes peer hard
from night's sleep.
All about me men
were killing, hacking
each on each,
as if Hell had emptied
all upon the field,
none giving quarter;
none until death comes
will yield.
He added fond wishes
and kisses at the bottom,
his scribbled hand
was hard to read
midst fingerprints
blood marked,
where one had bled.
She had his letter
and his words,
but he was dead.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
He wrote his wife
from battle's field
how he cleaved through
the solider's head,
and how now, he said,
I see his eyes peer hard
from night's sleep.
All about me men
were killing, hacking
each on each,
as if Hell had emptied
all upon the field,
none giving quarter;
none until death comes
will yield.
He added fond wishes
and kisses at the bottom,
his scribbled hand
was hard to read
midst fingerprints
blood marked,
where one had bled.
She had his letter
and his words,
but he was dead.
