Underneath these piles of postcards,
Crumbled, dirtied, cherished,
You’ll find a compassionate heart: broken, shriveled, perished.
My intrepid soldier walks the line
For a cause, holy enough to be divine.
Underneath these piles of postcards,
Folded, disorganized, saved,
Lays a wild-mustang soul no longer misbehaved.
My intrepid soldier struts, chest proud and high,
His self ready, willing, and able for another persistent try.
Underneath these piles of postcards,
Worn, stained, relieving,
Cries many-a-soldiers over Captain; simply grieving.
My intrepid soldier sits among his comrades,
Acting as a guardian angel, replacing moms and dads.
Underneath these piles of postcards,
Feared, ignored, reread,
Dwells a dying soldier losing his sweet, pretty head.
My intrepid soldier sleeps soundly, ready to give in,
Personality missing, no longer found within.
Underneath these piles of postcards,
Loved, praised, destroyed,
Exists a back, deepening hole producing an endless void.
My intrepid soldier lays underground in a lonesome, buried coffin,
Resting alongside so many other blameless men.
No longer a pile of postcards,
Lost, missing, gone.
A new, just day arises with the renewing crack of dawn.
My intrepid soldier battled with a strong, burning passion,
And he that had fought so well died in the most honorable of all fashions.
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Wryn's Poems, Short Stories, and other Works
What feel like writing, when I feel like writing, and usually why I feel like writing.
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