Shoot me: I am your enemy

I am not a soldier but

from time immemorial, I've stalked the battlefield -

I'm apprehensive with shallow breathing and a gun to my heart.

I do not fight for Queen and country,

nor for a better world, nor God, nor love, nor rights.

I have only my itchy trigger finger.

With bullet upon bullet, I snatch away lives;

body upon body comes crashing to the dirt,

until the wasteland is silent once more.

Again into the mist, once more unto the breach,

until leaden arms grow weary with doubt,

and I see not the white flag.

I cannot move lest I reveal my position,

nor sleep until I have surrendered;

their pot-shots continue to sear through my vision.

I aim into the dark now,

just spraying and praying,

to a deity I have no assurance is watching.

I'm tired and thirsty,

I crave peace and quiet,

but the gunshots echo in the depths of my being.

The relentless enemy is around me always,

hiding in the shadows;

I could fight them if I knew what they were.

I foresee the bullet inscribed with my name,

that will sink its way into my heart of hearts,

but I know not if it come from front or back.