The Weight I Carry

The smell of blood invades my nose every morning around dawn

and we were not woken up quietly.

My eyes opened wide to the sounds of screams penetrating my eardrums.

The smoke blurs our line of sight and we could not see anything in the distance,

we are blinded. Slowly I will move to hide and wait till I can point my weapon,

the cold musket in my hands, waiting to be fired.

The screams and fire burn our ears; we are not the first out.

We can see bodies drop and their eyes do not have white, only red.

The ground will crack below our feet and there is no soft dirt only

mangled flesh, still bloody.

And I will run and run and run fast to the point. Waiting for others and I

will stand with only one fourth of my company.

The millions of particles of gunpowder will burn my nose and lips and the weight I carry

will be heavier than twelve rucks but I only have one.

I am carrying a best friend, a husband, a son in my arms; lifeless to a larger pile.

I will watch, clutching their tags, as the pile is lit. I am alive

and my eyes are begging for me to close them but I can’t.

The sight driving my brain wild and the voices will shriek. Stop.

And now the smell of burning flesh invades my nose and is there to stay.

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