A race with no winners

.

He and I, we struggled 

Till I put the blade in his chest.

One.. two... three.... four... fi..'

The sounds of his ribs piercing,

Still echoes.

His grunts with every hit,

Clear as a summer sky, free from clouds.

His hands holding me back,

begging for his life.

Not him, only his hands and his limbs and his body.

I too, was only begging to live.

 

I stabbed him again, and again and again

till I was tired and scared and afraid and afraid.

His blood and coughs, together as one

Still alive, but barely.

Shivering like a wet dog,

in a cold, rainy day

 

The blood stains on my hand,

The breaths, and the monotone.

I realized now what I had done.

As I see him lie down still struggling to breathe

Sinned, and sinned. And sinned.

 

I went up to him once again, 

With the blades in my hand

The poor man, his eyes gleaming

with death and pain

He only wanted to live. 

 

He had a wife and a daughter,

Oh my remorse, what had I done?

He was only a family man, 

Not a fighter;

and he's now gone

He's dead.

Broken to no end like the glass;

He and I, the Frenchman and the German

we both played our parts

in a race to the knife

With no winners.

 

(Inspired from all quiet on the western front)