Soldier In the Dust

I, a small feeble man boasted with joy over the deceased body of the enemy, a young boy. Days had passed since the soldier had see his own men, his thick beard slightly decayed to grey, shadowing his entire face from the outside world. He again peered over the sprawled out figure in the dirt. This time with more disgrace then before. His face stood hidden beneath a thin stream of blood, from the mellowed out hole to the left of his ear. Darken blood ran, darker then the shadow of a fallin pier. Enlightment bestowed itself in an ackward place, victory meant freedom, but not for the soldier in this case. This lifeless figure lying in the dust, held for a moment, grasp upon my very own life, first I took his out of lust. Had his prayers been answered, I'd be in his place, his boot would have elasped the impressed mold of mine. This man I do not know, this man could have taken the life of mine.