He stands there in the trench
bullets flying overhead
shrapnel, shattered, lead poisoning
his chest.

Wounds unmended shine in
moonlight
day shifts into night
bleeding, pleading for the right
to stay alive.

Smell of dread and gunpowder
all around
present corpses replace past comrades
death, guts and dirt, splattered
sinking into the ground.

Yet he stands from the coffin
running like a rampant hound
with fury, glory, and a bang
a shot flew through the back of
his head.

The world's a battlefield
and he ended up on the wrong side
but stood, fought, and died
for what seemed right.

Soldiers are meant to carry
a burden on their shoulders
even if it's a boulder, the world,
or an ideal worth the cost.

And humans are defined by their
battles
even when they're lost.