Red Wine

• Erin Fisken, Grade 9
• Poetry
• 2015

I stand up tall, machine in the air
With the other soldiers’ nine,
I pull the trigger without thought
I’m surrounded by red wine,

The conflict starts, the stampede roars
A very fatal sign,
A mangled mass lay sprawled beneath me
In a pool of dark red wine,

The stench of sweat and dirt gets strong
A quiver shoots down my spine,
I can feel the tears running thick and hot
As I stare into the red wine,

I was only young I thought it was great
To support my country until I die
Fatigue takes over, I get hit
All I remember is warm red wine.