Liturature Entry Week 9
Alright for this weeks journal I thought a bit of my own creative writing done in the spirit of a Wilfred Owen war poem but within a more contemporary context, hope you like it:
Rolling down this endless road
The endless no point to being here road.
I think about my girls back home
As I watch the sand and sky stretch out
Like the hours stuck inside of this steel tank.
Another check point at the side of the road
So we get out to fill in the regular forms.
Only this time from the air a whistle sounds
And a yell from my group:
“GET DOWN, GET DOWN”
Bombs dropping all around.
“GET DOWN, GET DOWN”
Explosions shaking the ground.
We duck and run as a shell cracks under my feet
That splits to a ringing in my ears.
And sand fills my mouth and nose
And the taste of something else.
I take my friends hand and lie there and pray.
“Wake up, Wake up”
The smell of burnt hair
Wake up, Wake up now”
But only a blank stare.
And I realize I can’t feel my legs.
Much later, back in the land of the free
I lie and dream of my wedding day,
And all the hopes that we held.
It makes me sick in my bones
Now I’m leg-less and lame
As the pain nors away on my inside.
Jesse Kants
Rolling down this endless road
The endless no point to being here road.
I think about my girls back home
As I watch the sand and sky stretch out
Like the hours stuck inside of this steel tank.
Another check point at the side of the road
So we get out to fill in the regular forms.
Only this time from the air a whistle sounds
And a yell from my group:
“GET DOWN, GET DOWN”
Bombs dropping all around.
“GET DOWN, GET DOWN”
Explosions shaking the ground.
We duck and run as a shell cracks under my feet
That splits to a ringing in my ears.
And sand fills my mouth and nose
And the taste of something else.
I take my friends hand and lie there and pray.
“Wake up, Wake up”
The smell of burnt hair
Wake up, Wake up now”
But only a blank stare.
And I realize I can’t feel my legs.
Much later, back in the land of the free
I lie and dream of my wedding day,
And all the hopes that we held.
It makes me sick in my bones
Now I’m leg-less and lame
As the pain nors away on my inside.
Jesse Kants