The Wreath, a Soldier Chronicle Pt. 1

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