When a soldier marches, where does his focus go?
Forward? To glory or doom?
His mind filled with stories of honour and pride of wars long ago?

Backward? Of the life, they left behind?
To the wife, the child back home?
The medals to be shown as trinkets or to speak never more?

Have they ever stopped to look around? Of the country, to be or not to be? The mountains, the rivers, the towns and to the sea.
The damage to be caused? The life preserved?

Regardless, the solider marches

The army of time marches ahead
while the nervous cling to the edges of hope;
wishing to be loved and cared for
in a future of worry;

Hands dance from number to number
while the pretentious feign having hope;
wishing to be loved and cared for
in a future of worry;

A billion clocks update with ease
while the tired let go of hope;
wishing to suffer no more for no longer
within the chasms of darkness;

The winds of change blow forever
while the dispirited admit to losing hope;
wishing to suffer no more for no longer
within the chasms of darkness.