Perpetual Question

Rapid rifles, fearful aim,

from a smoking cellar nest.

They select another target

and explode a young mans' chest.

While the medic cradles gently,

grim comrades bid good night.

They close his eyes, collect his tags

and prepare his box for flight.

He returns a name and number,

while the bugler blows farewell.

Families clutch the folded flag

he did earn for where he fell.

Rigid rifles, solemn aim,

they assail a steel gray sky.

Great God above, embrace him.

Did he really have to die?

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Rhyming Poem contest entry

Too much of this and then it always starts up again somewhere else.

Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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