Fighters

A poem inspired by a Native American song I learnt in a youth group called we are the dead men

Fighters

We, the fighters, when?
Us, innocent men

Ordered to fight,
filling with fright.

We can’t pretend,
or even defend.

After the order,
there is only disorder

Bullets in our head.
Down amongst the dead.

Down, we were called.
Down, we were pulled.

Down to the dead.
Final tears shed

Author's Note

Yup my poems always seem a bit cringe but oh well, just be honest even if you hate it I don't mind I just want as much feedback as possible!! Thank you.