The battle lines were drawn as they had been times before.
I pacified a yawn as I stared at the topic.
Aware of my options,
I strategised for war.
If I planned to write a story, it had to be something refreshing.
The subject suggested just doesn’t merit a colourful epic
of blood and revenge from the gunners perspective.
The clumsy cadet stood in the trenches looks apprehensive,
shoulders at ease as he motions his feet over debris.
A soldier who’s seen the horrors of war,
and loss that it causes,
knows how precious those few seconds taken to lift a lowered weapon
can be when you’re caught alone.
Defenceless.
Unaware.
Unprepared.
Death clung the air like a fighter jet
firing heavy artillery, before rising steadily to defy the enemy.
The silent sentient soldier’s never heard the whistle of bullets
hitting the stomach of a victim who clutches his fingers impulsively toward the injuries suffered.
The image in front of me may depict a game of simply “Toy Soldiers”
with a boys older sibling’s voiceovers narrating the action in a play-by-play as it happens
placing the plastic pawns at arrays of advancement.
The spokes that stand in this No Mans Land were made out of matchsticks.
The barbed wire’s just sharp pliers and paper clips
shaped to fit, then glued by their dad.
A car buyer who’s carb diet grew as he sat
amusing the lads while rueing his sacking.
Numerous marriage problems reduced them to cannon fodder.
The troops had been trampled on in a heated exchange
that would see the estranged wife announce she was leaving.
Again.
The hardwood floor’s where Sargent Slaughter calmly fought the
crushing boot of the ex-wife
as she left right after giving him his marching orders.
It’s hard ignoring the parallels between the picture we have
of the medical kit being dragged,
and the night my mother picked up her bags
leaving everything that she had held dear behind.
Sleep deprived and weary eyed.
Single at last.
Soldiering on as she seeked to find peace of mind.
A weaker writer may have studied the cynosure while mulling this shit over
without looking at it closer to see Mummy’s Little Soldier.
Bloodied,
beaten,
but undefeated despite it all.
I was born a fighter, taught crying solves nothing
‘less you find a cause worth dying for.
So when the battle lines were drawn as they had been times before
I had to find a source of inspiration
before I strategised for war...
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