The wrenching

A wrenching from my guts
as arms and legs pass by my eyes;
torsos crushed under foot,
smashed still bleeding shins and thigh

yet I stand still
my breathing louder than
any advancing gun
my piss stains long forgotten;

we stood still not for the last time,
poised with one foot on the verge of Valhalla;
simple fools for King and country
whilst learned men played chess
with lives and lineage.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011