By brian francis

Drops dripping from high above
I can hear the jungle’s noise.
The river drifting slowly by
As with my mind it toys.
Memories of yesteryear
Are creeping oozing out;
From deep within a time gone by
A cry, a shot, a shout.
I see the scarlet red stained cloth
That once was green and warm.
I feel the wrenching, piercing pain
Go through my chest and arm.
I see the jungle burning hot
As the fire storm is launched,
A burning mass of green and brown
Where the enemy was stanched.

Copyright © 2020 brian francis

Published by

B. F. O'Connor

Born and raised in the idyllic environment of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. A rural paradise perfect for a roving childhood. Now living in the desert southwest, with a flock of parrots, a pigeon, and Three dogs.

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