by Sean Dempsey
When the shots were quiet and the dust was blown…
When last all my innocence I’d outgrown—
When I’d fought and killed, hands stained red,
The last one standing, or so they said—
I rose and looked around the Killing Field
Where no broken soul was ever healed.
And I yearned to find someone to hate;
I sought for blood, as was my fate—
I still longed to KILL; so bathed in ire:
I knew no world that breathed not fire.
But the field was empty, barren, dumb—
And but I was left, alone, just one!
They’d killed and maimed, and so had I;
I knew where and when and how, not why.
But the reasons do not matter more
Than crimes which can’t just be ignored.
They’re not human, no, and never were;
They’re Monsters, killers, beastly curs—
That’s why we kill, it’s justified!
That’s why we steal, maim, rape, and lie.
We wage a Holy War to cleanse the earth!
This is why we’re trained to kill from birth.
This is why the field before me’s charred;
On ruins stand I, its lonely guard.
We won! Prevailed. The villains slain!
This bloody wasteland: triumph’s refrain—
Yet regret I can’t free one last battle cry,
And with these hands make one more die!
