Dust

Once a soldier, now an airy wraith, a hapless ghost who drifts and flitters there, he came to battle as a blazing flare and met his Maker, stripped, and shorn of faith. Vegetation scattered o'er the lea, a tree stands bare, its skeletal remains cry desolation, no good gains can come from grief and agony. To glory or destruction they will go, over the top and onward, as they must, crosses mark the spots where bugles blow. Scoured bones mark the perimeters of death, disintegrate, and crumble into dust, as warriors expend their final breath.