A Son

A
son,
he's dressed in greens
and browns. Camouflage,
like his father before him.

Though he's too young
to hold a pencil and write
a lengthy essay,
he is told to hold a gun.

No one died before him,
he's not taking someones place.
He's simply been called to order,
been called to serve,
to take his place.

The miles will be long
and yet he knows that
all the time;
He'll be crawling along the dirty
mud that tames his shine.

He wants to sparkle,
wants to glow,
but if he tries it's like
the answer's always no.

It's his place
it's where he stands.
To hold his ground and fight
on land.

Not for glory,
not for fame,
just to slightly stay sane.

The pressure pulling down
doesn't equal going up
yet he's only drowned a year,
drowned in air.

The year where he faltered,
disappointed,
misplaced his step.
Nearly got shot,
barely survived,
tumbled, rolling on the ground.

He got picked up,
was taught to stand
again.

Now he walks on his own
again, and tries to walk the
line. Though the clear obedience
to duty clearly seen before,
is not always seen inside.

His ways have changed,
he's not the same
and will never be again.
For the soldier he once was,
has learned to live again.





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