Under iron banner of destitution

Across stormy plains of fear–long forecast,

Of inclement warfare–of pen’s blood,

Courage lost and strength renewed.

Mighty Mountains with menacing smoke,

The breath of a weapon discharged with abandon.

Soldiers may always be soldiers,

With the intent to kill and harm, they serve.

One combatant–on paralyzed ground,

In the heaviness of rain and hail.

Red-stained papers of final demise,

Written worries of a whispering fate.

Doom speaks with firm revelation,

With acceptance and acknowledgement–it tides.

Among trotted moors and smoldering trees,

The soldier lays still and weeps:

 “Try as I must, Lord, to see substance surely.

Trepidation of war, from whence we rule, is but a final destiny,

With the hopes to kiss the throne of heavenly glory–”

A final expression of a dying heart.

Photo by Neil Thomas on Unsplash