Unknown Soldier

Panic,

it is a sword that pierces a heart,
they take lives mercilessly,
the innocent and youthful,
dying for a country,
that gives nothing in return,

but gratitude.

1,
2,
3.

The countdown begins,
the yelling begins,

and with it the fear,
our hands fumbling,

shaking as we attach ourselves to a mask,

gazing with melancholic expressions,
at the green fog,
and at the new prospect of more death.

Hands claw at burning throats,

eyes bulge,

they roll back,

turn white,

froth touching at their lips,

it is a deadly kiss,

tears of blood, sweat and pain,

adding to the mess,

of the bodies crunching below our feet.

A poet would say,

that before they died,

their lives would flash before their eyes,
but that is not true,

it is a lie,

they can see nothing,

but panic and blood,

the fear flashing in their minds,

and their families and friends are forgotten,

in the spur of a war.

They say that I was lucky,

I survived,
that's what they say,
funny phrase really,

I'm not living anymore,
the horror will haunt me,
today, tomorrow, and forevermore,
and the blood will never clear,

from my vision.

I am afraid,
the masks mean danger,

some couldn't survive,

the panic took over,

screaming, hands fumbling still,

the fear continued.

We couldn't see either side,

the chemicals screaming,

itching upon our skin and telling us to die,

so many fell,
to the cold ground,

beneath out blistering feet,

and those who didn't,
they get called survivors,

but they are as dead as the rest of them,

our hearts can no longer beat to any pattern,

other than the marching pattern,

embedded in our minds.

And of our Unknown Soldiers,

The light in their eyes,

like a million stars,

flicker out of sight,

and all at once,
die.

It only occurs to me now,
how scarring it must be,
to begin a poem with Panic,

and end it with the prospect of Death.