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Iraq

by Johnny Crimson

Breath,

I can't picture the battlefield,

at least not
the way it acutally was,

I no longer see the familiar dying around me,
just the remains of charcoaled ghosts.
Only the remnants of twisted dogtags and shared confessions
litter these dusty streets.
I can no longer tell you with any such accuracy, the way it was to be, or if anyone died by my hand(s)

All that I can really recall
is my breathing,

that much I know is accurate,
that much I know is sincere
in MY story,

it was hell to breathe.

01/06/2011

Author's Note: (I hate war,I miss war)

Posted on 01/07/2011
Copyright © 2024 Johnny Crimson

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 01/07/11 at 01:00 PM

Sometimes the way one breathes is the only thing that keeps you alive.

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