It's over now, the field is
oddly quiet. There is
no movement out there.
Without me sitting here,
there would be no evidence
of the anguish.
You could walk out there
now, you probably wouldn't
even see the blood. You
go out there and you think,
"Wow, this place is so
beautiful!" You don't
even notice the bullet
holes in the ground or the
shells from fired rounds
laying like the husks of
some dead insect.
All the bodies have been
carried off, they are under
that mound out there,
the one right before you
get to the trees. There's
already some grass growing
on it. I guess that means
life goes on. But for
those of us who were there,
we can't forget about what
happened last night.
For most of you, this
place is a field of dreams.
And I agree, this
place could be beautiful,
one day there could be a
soccer field to hide the
pain of last night.
But you weren't there.
For me, there will
be no blessed forgetfulness
to hide the memory of the
field of nightmares.
Reason for writing:
I was sitting in psychology class one day, and I was really
bored, thinking about the pointlessness of war, and thinking
about the miserable soccer game we had had the night before,
and I just started writing, and this is what came out.
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View more poems by Russ Fryman {Leo}.