Three Minutes

Three Minutes

Three minutes before 

the soldier dies,

he closes his eyes, or maybe

he keeps them open 

to see the world one last time.

Either way, it does not matter

because no one will remember 

these faint heartbeats of time.

He is a sergeant, a major, a private.

He has many names and none at all.
Either way, it doesn't matter.

After he dies, they won't call him

Michael or John or Steven. 

Etched in stone, he is forever only 

 a beloved son, a brother, a father.

Two minutes before 

the soldier dies, 

he has never felt more alive.

For in his mind lives his family, 

his home and his dreams. 

He doesn't feel lonely, or at least

he pretends not to. 

But it's hard to pretend, 

when the world is so loud and 

the voices he wants to hear

are not there by his side. 

Either way, it doesn't matter. 

Because when he whispers

 into the decaying light, 

there will be no answer. 

One minute before 

the soldier dies, he lets out a 

hopeful, hopeless sigh. 

He is afraid he'll die for a lost 

cause, but most of all, he's

afraid of not surviving the night.

But whether he knows it or not, 

ever since he signed 

himself away, he has been a 

dead man walking. 

Either way, it doesn't matter. 

If he is lucky, after he dies,  

they will bury his body, say a few words.

He made us proud, even if he didn't. 

He was brave, even if he wasn't. 

He died for our country, even if in his

final moments, all he thought of

was his mother, his lover, his brother

waiting back home.

Either way, it doesn't matter

because in the end, they're all the same. 

Just scattered souls and broken bones 

lost deep beneath the dirt in lands far, far away.