Kill Me On Friday, Bury Me On Sunday
By Conlan Nielsen
All he remembers is the friend, the field, the fire
Seeing sunsets or hearing gun-fire filled his heart with rage and ire
In that war's final days, the final sunsets purple hue
The Sarge’ gave a war´s award when his best friend's death was due
¨I recall the day¨ he somberly says ¨his final moments in the fray¨
¨The napalm strike that took his life and turned my heart to gray¨
Clouded of mind the veteran was, his own life he chose to take
“Not a chance” he thought, “in hell ill bear this dread I hate”
The crack of a revolver, be his last goodbye
Leaving a dreaded deafening silence in the sky
And finality of shape, it did take…
Then he woke in the moment, in that fiery field, and a reckoning stood in his wake
His heart froze, droppin’ to his knees, sense of self came to halt
¨Don't cry my dear old friend, my death was not your fault¨
Lifeless and charred his body was, his friend floated through the ashes
The veteran slammed the ground with repeated and rage filled bashes
His eyes began to well and tear
His heart did fill with dread
When he looked up again
His friend was gone, and the purple sunset took it´s grace
He looked down before his hands
A purple medal did lay there
And on the medal, his friends face it did bear
Fate laid them killed on Friday
Buried on Sunday
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