Blue uniforms and white chevrons,
perilous deeds and honorable mentions,
white-knuckled fear to span new dimensions.
But, oh, I certainly had it easier than most.
Seven years departed. Seven years to harden.
Without question, the thing I miss the most,
among the rank and file host,
is the ease in which I could blindly reach,
and find a Brother or Sister’s Honor.
Unstained. Unbroken. Complete.
We chose to be there, each and all.
Some didn’t make it home.
More still would fall.
I fell, too weak to go on.
© All rights reserved, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.