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Cult of the Wounded (poem)

By Paul Hellweg

Blood unleashed from the body,
coppery scent, pungent,
evokes in all of us
a primal need to survive.
Machine-gun fire sporadic,
AK's popping,
M-16's responding to the challenge,
smoke grenades billowing yellow.
The wounded scream and beg for help as
Medevac pilots brave
spider-web cracks radiating
through Plexiglas windshields.
Everyone there, all of us,
risked our lives to save the wounded,
caring not what assholes
they might have been
ere metal hot and unpasteurized
entered yielding flesh,
changing forever the victim's status
to holy icon
of our own most heartfelt yearnings.

—Paul Hellweg