Where does the sorry even start I ask,
when all these time I’ve been wearing this mask.
mask that can’t be unmask without trauma,
unmasking leading to melodrama.
I’m very Sorry for the things I’ve done,
for all the things done, which I can’t outrun.
Will settle with the Big One when I meet,
until then forgive and make me complete.
Gave love all I got,
would be enough I thought.
Turned out to be nought,
left me out to rot.
Felt no pain or anger,
filled my heart with hunger,
to make it last longer,
would that be a blunder?
Husky voice still do linger,
in my mind little stronger,
Like a warm coats in the winter,
making me into a thinker.
I’ve been here many times before,
without me even asking for.
Time to swim for the shore?
before my heart is sore?
Clenching my M16 so hard my knuckles starts to hurt,
with incessant rain, my uniform covered with sweat and dirt.
Tension hangs heavy as the thick fog, waiting for the go ahead,
brother-in-arms conveys with his eyes the tension without being said.
Deafening noise of shells that keeps falling nearby keeps reminding us of danger,
chunks of mud and rocks raining down with it feels larger and larger.
Some wise men said “There is no atheist in foxholes”
everyone praying they were somewhere else instead of this hellhole.
Brief break in pace of shooting allows me to peek over the trench,
my sense of smell is overwhelmed by the smell of rotten body stench.
Just as I was recovering from the urge to regurgitate my K-ration,
a bullet ricochet off my helmet leaving me with a dazed sensation.