In blood I’d write, definition of mirth
Not mine for sure, was the wasted gore
But the relic was mine, my prized rebirth
From a fearful fella, to fear’s metaphor!
A fifty something, Aah! My cherished first kill
Across the barb, with a smoking gun
I stared in his eyes, I found them still
Worn-out of hate, stood a man undone!
“I tell you son, bloodshed’s no feat!
I’ve killed myself, many times indeed”
I sensed in his words, his soul’s defeat
“Let my valor bloom on, from my passion’s seed”!
A gunshot hence, I met my game
So right was he, it was me, with his name!
Conquest seemed, at once, madness’s metaphor
And I kissed “au revoir”, The Man I Killed At War!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra