The best time is early in the morning.
When the sun lifts its eyelid across
The desert floor, and the smoky swirls
Of burning oil are chased away.
The smell of cheap black coffee
That catches the back of your throat.
The sight of your first target.
My gun is a cross on which I die daily.
When squinting through the cross hair
My enemy could be galaxies away.
My heartbeat is beating in my ear.
How could you be so cold they say?
But I was trained to shoot targets.
Trained to ‘not’ think, just do.
There’s no room for a chance to say,
‘Drop your weapons,’ and ask what side you’re on.
To kill is drilled into me. To question,
Left by officers. They provide the excuses.
One minute a hero. Next a psychopath.
They say, ‘Why didn’t you identify?’
One woman, a husband, and one child.
Burning sunlight in downtown Baghdad.
Faces of hatred thrown at me. Every
Human being a potential target.
But what some say is wrong. Is
Sometimes considered right. And war
Strips you of your humanity. Takes
Your soul. And nails it to a cross.
