The soldier lays there lifeless.
The remnants of his distorted face
Congealing with blood.
At once, his ruthlessness
Dissipates to conjecture.
His frailty and youthfulness
Spawn the first seeds of doubt.
The tormented eyes of the his assailant,
Are now clouded by the disillusionment of war.
He stares down in silence,
Not at a soldier, but at the man he killed.
Whose sunken chest, slender wrists,
And long dainty fingers, meticulously groomed,
Paint a portrait of a reluctant warrior.
He stares down at the ravaged corpse,
Pondering endless questions. Who was he?
What could he have been without the cruel reality of war?
Some say killing comes easier the second time around.
But ask men who trudged knee deep, through the rice
Fields of Vietnam, for if they talk, (And they rarely do,)
You might find, that the golden thread
Of silence, is the membrane thin safety net
That keeps them from plunging into the abyss of insanity.
*Adapted from the short story �The Man I Killed� by Tim O�Brien