PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It is only two weeks and already I am fed up of patrols.

My gun is heavy and smells of oil,

my left forefinger tickles the trigger

as I walk.

My right forearm feels cramped and dead.



The flies buzz relentlessly around

my hot flushed face, as the sun

narrows my eyes too often.

The odour from my body is strong

and my heels feel raw,

like my nerves.

The sweat runs down my back

and my thighs feel chaffed and red.

I think of a bath to mentally cool down.



The first zing and ping pass me bye,

then the clatter of noise

has me diving for cover.

I realise the enemy

has arrived.

Just like me...