Pawns

• Aaron Martano, Grade 9
• Poetry
• 2017

Miles of wasteland and shrapnel and fires
They trudged through the corpses and craters and wires
Their eyes were hollow, in need of rest
Eternal sleep was sleep nonetheless

The bullets soared and tore through their souls
They felt their lives seep out from the holes
The air smelled like courage and grisly rot
Their feet were cold but their heads were hot

Disposable, worthless, dropping like flies
Under the clouds of the Vietnam skies
Under the gaze of God and the dead
They fought till they stained themselves with red

Their helmets bloodied, a crown of thorns
In this morbid game, they were all mere pawns
Even still, stricken, lain on Death’s door
The soldiers knew that the pawns win the war