Published on: 6/18/2015
The Deserter

When he wakes, he knows it's for the last time.
Knows that this will be the day the bullets
rip through his chest, break his unworthy heart.
He feels too sick for his meagre breakfast,
throat too tight to swallow cloudy water.
He dresses, no medals on his jacket,
bare hanging threads where the stripes used to be.
He prays to God, though he doesn't believe.

They come for him at first light. It is time.
All is silence, no birdsong to break it,
no chattering voices, no friendly face,
just the blank looks of war-weary men.
He feels the pole at his back, the rough rope,
the blindfold, and then… just blessed darkness.