When he was just a little boy
He’d play games of war
Defeating unknown enemies
As peace he did restore.

He’d line up all his soldiers
And march them to and fro
Preparing for a sneak attack
Against an unseen foe.

But now that he’s a grown man
The gun he holds is real
The war he’s in, is not a game,
He now kills men for real.

Around him missiles light the sky,
And men cry out in pain
Punctured by hard bullets
In this war he can’t explain.

He lays there bleeding in the trench
As tears fall from his eyes.
He prays to God that wars will end.
He breathes once more and dies.


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Copyright ©1998 by Sheila B. Roark. All rights reserved.
Published in Poetry the Write Way: Webstatic – First Journey (Sept. 2000)
First Place – Poets of the Vineyard, 1998.
Sheila’s biography page