by Robert miller

In Dreams they come to visit me,
The friends lost, again I see,
From ethereal regions they call to me,
Their lives regained from memory.

The mortars thump, the choppers beat,
The dust, the sand, the humid heat,
I sweat and turn though out the night,
Each vigil ends with mornings light.

The rockets roar, the mortars thump,
A cold sweat is born, an unswallowable lump,
The frustrating feel of helpless death,
The guts go cold, you gasp for breath.

The blood and pain's still raw in me,
This damnable bloody memory!