A poem by David Whitney c2022
Too late to pray forgiveness
When the battlefields are red
The whole world now against him
He’s a gun pressed to his head
His finger on the trigger
Counting all the lives now lost
The families, the children
Who had paid the final cost
Their blood upon his selfish hands
Their lives of little worth
A heart so cold and thoughtless
Who the hell put him on Earth
His eyes awash with guilty tears
His power reigns no more
The generals once obeying him
Betray what he stood for
Alone without an army
With nobody left to heed
His orders born of madness
And his lust for personal greed
His finger quivers slightly
Has he lost the will to live
Is there no one there to hear him
Is there no one who’ll forgive
And then he hears a whisper
As his fears are realized
And the ghosts appear to haunt him
Now he sees how he’s despised
As they near his only option
Is to face what he has done
Pulling hard now on the trigger
In a war nobody’s won.
