Tortured Head

Here’s a poem that I wrote years ago. Enjoy!


Tortured Head

Sitting in the coffee shop

Outside the window, a bus stop.

I sit and watch people waiting,

My actions for the day I’m contemplating.

It’s almost two thirty in the afternoon

The bus will be arriving very soon.

A shell explodes to my right

Dirt and blood spray in my sight.

There used to be men; now a shell hole.

Oh God, please save my soul

God, protect me with your heavenly shield

I am in Hell here on the battlefield

More shells rattle and strike in the distance

More men are wiped out of existence.

Coffee is spilled, a shattered mug on the floor

Waiters rush to clean and to get more.

I stared down at my own table

Standing up, I am not able.

I want to leave but am compelled to stay

It’s a typical occurrence in my day.

My sergeant yells to me to move on

Adrenalin takes me where my comrades have gone

Bodies strewn across the ground

Nightmarish slaughter is all around.

I dance around the fallen and the dead

While machine gun bullets fly past my head.

I trip and land amongst some corpses

Drawn to one face by cruel forces.

“Would you like some more coffee?”

The waiter smiles after asking me.

I wave him no and he walks away

He won’t ask me the rest of the day.

My mug is empty and at it I stare

A man bumps into me but I don’t care.

My body exists here in this time

My mind is elsewhere where the devil has dined.

There is a calm look on my brother’s face

Despite his body torn in half at the waist.

His eyes forever open, staring up at the sky

His final thoughts never told before he died.

My sergeant grabs me and pulls me along.

Alive, and leaving my brother, both felt wrong.

With my sergeant, running at his side

Hoping this offensive will help turn the tide.

In the enemy’s trench, in killing mode

Firing my rifle and his head explodes.

I continue to add to the collection of death

I have the unwanted job of stealing their last breath.

The fighting is over, exhaustion sets in

To comprehend it all I don’t know where to begin.

I’m on the bus, on my way home

Memories still haunt me deep in my bones.

I cannot escape the images in my tortured head.

The faces from war: both the living and dead.


About jonolsonauthor

On top of working full time as a Security Checkpoint Coordinator at the Halifax Robert L. Stanfield International Airport and still learning the ropes of being a father, Jon is also a writer of horror and dark fiction. While he writes predominantly about the dark and horrible, he will step out into other areas if the interest is there. Jon is a proud member of Pen of the Damned and is also a member of the Horror Writer’s Association (Affiliate level). View all posts by jonolsonauthor

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