Colin F. Jones
Oh it didn’t land near anyone,
but I heard a dozen soldiers cry
for that one round from my gun,
caused a part of me to die.
It was enough, to know I’d failed;
to burden me for life,
for I would ever be impaled
on my own blunted knife.
No comfort given; only blame;
they took away my rank,
that by it with my inner shame,
from future soldiering I shrank.
For a pro cannot one error make,
and there is no one to thank.
©Copyright June 11, 2003 by Colin F. Jones