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
Copyright © Richard Pickett | Year Posted 2009
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