MISSING IN ACTION

The jungle where Americans fade,
Amidst the foliaged soil, Viet Nam,
Vietcong guerrillas barricade,
Beneath the ground the tunnels swam.

The nickel silver shine of moons,
Whose deathly flying pellets dart,
But death is real amongst platoons,
The stench, I draw in breathless art.

Viet Nam back in sixty four,
And sixty five, uncloak the dead,
The phantoms scythe, exist in war,
Proclaiming death its swiftness bled.

In heated battle far from home,
Your shells explode my heart's desire,
Entombed with shrapnel's falling dome,
My love remains as I expire.

©Copyright 2003 by Wesley D. Willis