The Wreath, A Soldier Chronicle pt. 1

Written by: Richard Pickett

A fine mist, hovers close to the ground,
But it cannot be a fog.

It cannot be, it's a hundred and three,
This is desert, not a bog.

Strain as I may, I still cannot see,
The earth, that lies beneath.

Until a man, comes into view,
He gently sets a wreath.

My camera softly clicks, but once,
At the Solemn view,

I caught his eye, he walked my way,
And whispered " who are you"

I said, I'm taking photographs,
To chronicle this fight,

Just then, the mist began to clear,
My eyes beheld the sight,

For what happened here, the night before,
The worst I had ever seen.

I could not bring myself to shoot,
I just could not believe,

The soldier pointed out a patch,
On a dead mans arm,

The Stars and Stripes,smeared with blood,
Protects me from all harms.

I bowed my head, tears filled my eyes,
At the carnage I did see,

These men and women lying here,
Bravely died for me.

As I raised my head, to thank him,
The soldier with the wreath,

He briskly turned, stood up straight,
I could barely breath,

He raised a stiff hand, to his brim,
Slowly let it fall,

Then suddenly he disappeared,
If not there at all.

I walked among the fallen troops,
Looked down, could not believe,

The soldier that lay below me,
Was the one that set the wreath.


  To the Soldiers of Desert Storm