The Thousand-Yard Stare
There's nothing you can see
at a thousand yards
except through a scope
night or day, the bodies fall
over and over and over
shrapnel rains around you
you imagine running in
finally a hero
if only in your own mind
shooting, blasting, laying waste
to all that threatened
to all that made you
cower in your cold bed
you rise up, gun in hand
the enemy's eyes are red
and glowing dangerously
you fire and fire and fire
blood spurts in spouts of gore
the explosions echo like
a percussive orchestra of death
you bolt upright in bed
staring ever outward
terrified to look inside
where the stench of rot
rises and rises and rises.