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A Poetry tDrop
by Wetdryvac
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Cary Out Before
July 30, 1992
I saw an old soldier walking blistered by the side of the road
he carried a canteen and a bayonet flush against his back
he walked never slowing, never speeding up
eyes to each careful step in the choking dust
refused to raise his grimace to my calling out
so I followed him for a time
he appeared a ghost from a past I hardly recognize
blood dirt brown on his old fatigues
and he hummed a marching tune out of key, out of time
shuffled his stripped booted clip as I followed
matching his pace only to the ever present road
while he sang his marching drill he cried
shuddering out the words of a song I thought I knew
to the measure of Onward Christian Soldiers
his tears eaten now and again by the dust
��til he stopped singing
only then in the hottest sun did he raise his head
looked up to the crucible blue sky
dazed as he was by the sun
blind, he may have been, in turning looked right through me
but he must have gathered something, distance to his spoken word
��who ��s blood is on my hands? �� he asked, ��mine or yours? ��
and I knew not how to answer
��I think I killed today, perhaps
some little killings, some little killings ��
��when we marched on the hill where they ��d dug in
I don ��t know if we won or lost
but I saw such things as non should see
and I don ��t know who ��s guts I ��m bathed in
I couldn ��t ask, nor hear a question
above the stutter of the field guns
but we ��ve been told necessity is right
jurisdiction of the must, over the top ��
and then it all grows gray ��
he looked again through where I was
almost saluted and turned away
took up his step by step through the dust
��onward christian soldiers
marching as to war
with the cross of Jesus
carried out before ��
faded into the road like the ghost he was
ashes to ashes and his dreams sold back to the dust
and I don ��t know if he ��d even raised his bayonet
all I saw was �� dead old ma
a man who did not know if he ��d taken my blood
broken by memory he still walks, I ��m sure
and his singing haunts my dreams
for there can be no more joy to a song
sung marching off to war
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With thanks to the good folks at Hackers.Town for answering the very
n00best of questions, with the following people politely [REDACTED].
May your time go in a manner you consent to.
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IRC [REDACTED]
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