Everything But This

(This seems all to real and horrible to write about which is why I have hesitated a few weeks before displaying it, but it is with utmost respect that I do so, thanking God for those who are willing to give their all for freedom.)

Against this blazing, piercing sun, I cannot open up my eyes.
Against this deep resounding pain, I cannot open up my fists.
I have lost myself to everything but this.

I thought of my country as I aimed at foreign hearts;
I thought of freedom and courage and pride.
But now as I lay in grass and blood, all my eyes can see is home:
My brothers and sisters playing carelessly on an ordinary childhood day,
My father looking deep into my eyes and telling me I've made him proud,
My mother frying bacon like the morning before I left,
And that tender girl--I'm the only one she's ever kissed--
Who would be mine when I return from this sun and pain and blood.

And I'm grasping for a breath despite the bullet in my chest,
But I think I have run out at last.
Everyone has turned from me; everyone has gone.
I hear faintly sounds of choppers buzzing safely on...
Or is that the sound of death ringing in my ears?
My breath is gone; my friends have gone, my family, my girl...