Kandahar

The concussion of the mortar as it surges though your chest,
Though your armor stops the shrapnel, it still echoes through your vest,
Like a swift kick to the stomach, like the veterans have been telling,
Raising high pitch squeals within your ears, that’s mixed with muted yelling,
As the falling dust cloud chokes your lungs and fills your mouth with sand,
You look up to see, but first must wipe the blood off with your hand,
You can see your friends were lucky, just a mix of scrapes and bruises,
So they all dust off and stagger up, though one it seems refuses,
There an unknown soldier doesn’t move, his eyes are glassy white,
But the actual wound that took his life is not within our sight,
So in silent shock we stand our ground as medics raise his bloody head,
To check for breathing or a pulse, but we all know that he is dead,
They take their time pronouncing him; their careful gestures mask their lies,
For anyone can see the death reflected through his waxy eyes,
This war can seem surreal at times; today it proved it’s not a game
Today a soldier gave his life; not one of us recalls his name,
The things I write must seem obscene, when read from someone from afar,
But to me it’s just the life we live, deploying here to Kandahar.