It’s 1941,
you pray the war ends soon.
That the blood spilled
is yours,
not his.
That orders won’t stop you
from keeping
your promise.

It’s 1943,
you pray you don’t forget.
That you’re Sergeant
James Barnes
of the 107th.
That if you die in this lab
he will be home,
safe.

It’s 1943,
you pray death will be merciful.
That one day you’ll see him
again,
in Heaven.
So you can thank God
that it was you,
not him.

It’s 1954,
you pray for it all to stop.
That the burning in your
left arm,
isn’t real.
That the murder on your
red hands,
isn’t you.
That the boy you loved
never sees you
like this.

It’s 1954,
you stop praying
when you realise
no one
was listening.