Published: July 12, 2008
Updated: July 13, 2008
All is fair in love and war, or so he tells himself.
Finds himself free-falling through that void, that space
between squeezing the trigger and reasoning.
A rifle, gripped with knuckles white as the sand
on which cold sweat drips, is poised to aim.
Eyes meet his – a child’s, brimful of tomorrows and a look
bids you throw the rule-book out the window.
One smile is all it takes.
Scrawny heels scuff the dust; parched lips seek absolution.
Blood congeals on a torn, white robe like a seal of honour.
The young soldier’s blown to bits, yet death he chose.
Rather die like this, than live with a heart that was broken.