Letter To The Fallen
"Memories buried in the wavering wash of time."
I write you now with trembling hand,
The ink runs like the river sand,
Where once we laughed, side by side—
Now silence stands where you had died.
Your dog tags hang from rusted steel,
A ghost’s reminder I still feel.
Your voice just echoes in my chest,
A joke, a shout, your final rest.
We stormed the gates, we cursed the sky,
Shared cigarettes and questioned why
We made it home, but not as whole—
A folded flag, a shattered soul.
The days blur past, like boots in mud,
But time can’t rinse away your blood.
You haunt the dawn, the mess hall haze,
Each mile I march, each prayer I phrase.
"Memories buried in the wavering wash of time,"
But I still hear your voice in mine.
Sometimes I dream we're back again,
You throw a grin, my closest friend.
I held your hand as you grew cold,
So many truths I never told.
The guilt, it clings like desert dust,
And in my chest, that ache won't rust.
But here's the part I need to say,
The part that helps me breathe today:
I’ll live the life you couldn’t claim,
I'll light the dark that knew your name.
Each morning now, I stand and shave,
Salute the mirror, not the grave.
Your memory fuels each breath I take,
A sacred debt I won't forsake.
So rest, old friend. Your war is done.
I’ll carry both our shadows in the sun.
And when the silence takes my time,
We’ll meet again, past blood and grime.
Till then, your name's my marching song—
In heart and boots, I carry on.
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