As I walked that one last mile, tasted mud and blood alike. I walked with a limp, and carried a stretcher. On it, a man laid down, with his leg in wrapper. He held on to it, like a prized possession. When morphine heals, he'll come to the conclusion. He once was a runner, like a bolt. Now another war hero, minus few toes. Unworthy it was, the way I taunted him that day, Walking on two feet clearing the way. He might not know the pleasure of it, For duty, he may never be again, fit. Maybe his dues were paid. Maybe his tasks were done. Now, he'll embrace what comes in stride. He won't be asked to run. THE LAST WALK As I walked that one last mile, tasted mud and blood alike. I walked with a limp, and carried a stretcher. On it, a man laid down, with his leg in wrapper.
