One hundred years upon this day I die in war.

My life cut short by fear and rage on field of mud,

The two of us in fight to breathe our last,

We kill the other there,

And fall...

All love that we could give stops short,

All good that we could do now ends,

All touch and taste,

All scent of days with light and sound expire...

Remember not my sacrifice for something good, for it was not.

There was no meaning to my death.

Peace is the only enemy of war.

Remember me.

. . .

At the end of conflict we look to what is gained or lost, when often times there is so little left behind.

ORIGINATOR · Mike de Sousa

ART FORM · Poetry

COMPLETED · 2018

Free to enjoy. Copyright maintained. Not to be used for ai or commercial gain.