A Poem by M. Lapin

Death did not find him alone.
There were others surrounding him,
blood in rivers and streams,
fog and smoke, moan and cry.

He felt the bullet tear into his chest,
another into his gut, a third his arm,
and then he felt nothing at all
but blood, and cold, and more blood.

He did not die alone on the hills
near the trees and boiling grass.
No, he fell with others surrounded
by fog and smoke and to much noise.

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