The Dead Thing

The sun rises gray and tired, to reveal in mottled light Something strange and troubling left there in the night. The dead thing lay beside the road just outside the gate attracting young soldiers like demons drawn to hate. We all just had to see it, the thing with half a head, The top half blown away by a granade launcher shell. It came to plant a home made bomb, we sent it off to hell. We have to call it "It", never think of it as human- A young man much like us with parents, maybe children. No, that is unthinkable, it's an animal, a spore. It doesn't even look like flesh and bone anymore, It looks plastic as we stare and try to comprehend And remind each other it's an enemy so our hearts can mend. It would stare back accusingly, calling out our lies But thankfully, it cannot stare because it has no eyes.