By Swashplate

Nestled in my bunk of rocket box wood,
I try for restful sleep if only I could.
For instant replays dance in my brain,
As the nightly chorus lulls me,Monsoon rain.

I finish my dailys and repair my bird,
I contend with fustrations without a word,
Snippets of what was done and what needed to be,
Faces are blured, I truely didnt want to see.

The vibration and sound was tolerable in my dreams,
Only to be amplified when it came to screams.
The gray padded soundproofing turned brite red,
When a .51 cal, killed my gunner dead.

I clinch my trigger finger tighter,on my sleeping hand,
As I sweep away the dirt,blood,and sand.
Screams of TAKE OFF! TAKE OFF! leaves my lip,
Reaching for the 45 Colt at my hip.

Enter my girlfriend at home with soft face and breast,
Then getting the DEAR JOHN letter,like the rest.
The face of a VC,dirty and bloody attack,
I wrestle with this demonic ghost in my rack.

As the president pins the medals to my chest,
I notice I am a corpse,Mom cradles the flag at her breast.
I bolt up from sleep,sweat pours from my face,
I realize, I am still alive in this God Damned place!

I still take these Night Flights today,
I wish God would take them away.
But, Would  that be the right thing to do?
Someone has to remember, My war isn't through!