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Crimson; The colour of the end,
The battle is fought and there are wounds to tend.
Patch up the cuts, wrap up the broken,
Medicate the ill, and soothe the woken.
See them laugh, hear them smile,
Sit beside them and relax for a while.
They won’t show their pain, to them that’s defeat,
So just hold their hand and please don’t retreat.
A solider feels no pain, that’s what they seem say,
No tears in their eyes will you see in a day.
They march along the ground, suited up in style,
Quietly humming tunes for every long mile.
Fear is on their mind, adrenaline through veins,
All just free prisoners with invisible chains.
Hand held rifles resting by their side,
Prepared for battle with hearts full of pride.
The first shot is fired and everything goes blind,
As the soldiers try not to think of comrades left behind.
Panic strikes and instinct replaces reason,
Death will be the weather for this miserable season.
Trauma, a lasted effect,
Can ruin any sane human, what a wreck.
No breath will be heard, no heartbeat to follow,
A dead soldier lies, leaving his family all hollow.
A folded flag rests, on a coffin made of wood,
A sad ending to one that could have been good.