Armed with his weapons of war,
he advances;
Crouching down low,
behind enemy lines.
Prisoners of war,
on a mission to rescue.
Sweat burns his eyes,
In his race against time.
Cuts through the fence,
and ducks quickly inside,
careful to leave
not a trace of himself.
Now to the cell block;
the stench, indescribable;
Fear overrides body's
urging to retch.
Quickly through the locks, and then
throws wide the doors to set them free.
Then, in careless haste, a hail of bullets,
from his weapon fly.
Numb with shock, he staggers,
through the damage that his words have caused.
Heeding now, too late, the Spirit's prodding
to control his tongue.
Kevin E. Ness
