That mad war has driven man.

Drive his plane from air to earth.

But in that crash, there was a cruel silence.

His head gave him a call.

Reminded him of what he left

On the other side, his family, his faith, and his ways.

It mocked his delusion of loyalty to his country.

It made him question them all.

But this was not the first; doubt had eaten him ever since.

The moment he crawled under walls.

Danced with bullets.

Was gifted with wounds and scars.

And marched wearily. 

He once tried to fade away his pain by gulping pills.

And obtain that bravery feels, 

But he had just taken too much of a toll.

His mind, body, and soul are broken.

He was now just a spoil of war.

His hands, head, and knees refuse to speak to him.

All he can do is regret.

His bravado is gone, as is his soldier’s honor.

And his pride is gone.

Now, what of the man? The soldier?

He remains a shell of his former self.

Without his medals and badges.

Which he exchanged his family for.

Time and distance tore him apart from life.

His heart leaped as he pondered to himself,

Why has he done so much?

What value are his scars?

Who asked him to violently paint his body this way?

Was his war a God-given purpose?

He reckons on himself to ask for forgiveness from God and himself,

Because now, the soldier, the brave one, is done.