The last face I saw was my own.

He was so young, and I am old from this war.

I saw him in the thicket, crawling,

with a steel ball in his chest.

his blood ran from his ears and mouth

like grimy, red and black, worms.

That's when I saw the eyes of my own.

I can kill, but I will not today.

I left him in the thicket to die.

A sudden burning came into my neck.

I reached for air but there was none.

choking blood, I turned toward the thicket,

seeing the face that has ended me.

He seemed dead and I was dying.

The last face I saw was my own.

Oh, War, you are so not necessary, nor civil.

You have cut the times of men into pieces,

to be left on the many fields of our homes.

We were fighting you, we are fighting us.

What is so horrid that would come to this?

What great dreams are left undone?

What purposes are left to dwindle upon the brittle vines of time?

We could have served our time so much better.

but, for reasons unknown, we did serve you!

We will heap the earth upon those gone,

honor those who served,

and still, we will wonder why.

Why would we deny the lives and eyes of our own?

Oh War, you were given a promise above all love?

Learn more about this author, Joseph Coleman.
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