One soilders plight in the vileness of war

Trails of spilt paint
panting for their last breath
dying with their eyes closed
their mind froze, their soul gone

A fate that could have been my own
if not for the saving hand of grace
and stepping stones, and hard work
A major decision and these strong strides

kill a man and reep the bounty of death
there is nothing but ash in vengeance
nothing but stale and bitter oil
in the spilt blood of a comrade

So we press on, through storm
we let the mud lay our feet down
so weary from the known path
so endless.. this futile dream
each effort a snare, each motive snake
following the man in the army jacket
whose voice has grown raspy with command
unapologeticly refusing surrender

there is something in his will
that whisks a mere footsoilder like myself
onward
something about this place we tread
it is so familiar to me
yes it's my childhood memoir
my recaptured armmegedeon

what will be the fate of this man
how I wonder with eyes stuck
to the back of my skull
and where will the enemy strike
what will he look like?
The eyes that prey in the shadows.
wide and daringly alert

I sense danger I feel the spray of the fog upon my neck and it drips from my helmet
not knowing my outcome keeps me from sleeping, from rest
how is it that one cosmos, one planet, one soilder, can bear such ultimate significance
how can the end of myself.. possibly mark the end.. of all this?

....