When he was just a little boy
He�d play games of war
Defeating unknown enemies
As peace he did restore.
He�d line up all his soldiers
And march them to and fro
Preparing for a sneak attack
Against an unseen foe.
But now that he�s a grown man
The gun he holds is real
The war he�s in, is not a game,
He now kills men for real.
Around him missiles light the sky,
And men cry out in pain
Punctured by hard bullets
In this war he can�t explain.
He lays there bleeding in the trench
As tears fall from his eyes.
He prays to God that wars will end.
He breathes once more and dies.
Copyright �1998 by Sheila B. Roark. All rights reserved.
Published in Poetry the Write Way: Webstatic � First Journey (Sept. 2000)
First Place Poets of the Vineyard, 1998.