Glorious Death.

Glorious death!

Would that I
had wallowed
in a fox hole
dank and musty
waiting for the
enemy forces
to drop in
and have a spat.

Scribbling poems
on scraps of paper
given by the U.S.O.
sending it home
to be cradled
in mom's chest

of drawers
and cherished always
for it's most
bittersweet birth.

Polishing my
issued rifle
and then sleeping
with it snuggled
as close as
my girl back home
till at long last
it returns me
to the beauty
of her arms.

Taking orders
without question
taking lives with
fervent passion
like a waiter
with a bent for
poisoning pasta
served up hot.

Sharing in the
massive struggle
to help free some

oppressed nation
dancing in
joyous parades
held in
liberated towns.

Would that I
had simply perished
in the act of
saving soldiers
from some sure
as death destruction.

Offering myself
up instead
rather then to
lie in bed
dying as a
very old man
weeping for
the many years
that time chose
to steal away.

Or just riddled
with a cancer
eating me from
inside out
with no hopes
of any future
till the organs
all surrender
and my spirit
flees beyond.

There is dying
then there's dying
and though neither
one is pleasant
what is glorious
leaves a mark
so much higher
then the granite
of the tombstone
of an old man
who stopped aging
with a groan.

Or a middle aged
man dying
cause his nicotine
smoked him

into ashes.

There are nobler
ways to take

leaveof this life
with greater honor
when fate states
it's time to part
and when the reaper
stops ones heart

with a long

despairing sigh.





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