Free Verse Poem

 He had tears dripping down his puffy red cheeks,
 And he had burns lined in rows on his thighs.
 And I tried not to cry.
 At least I tried. 

 It was going so well,
 This little battle of ours,
 Bodies remained standing even in the clouds of smoke. 

 So busy enjoying the success we became Napoleons,
 We let our guard down and suffered a crushing blow. 

 And it was times like these when a soldier questions their battles,
 He was placing ponder to his own. 

 He wanted to raise the white flag,
 Take execution if he had to.
 He wanted to surrender,
 And I couldn't blame him,
 But I couldn't let him be defeated either. 

 I told him:
 The battle is almost won.
 Yet, it is only a battle. 

 When it's won you receive nothing more than a few days peace before boots are only shined to be bloodstained again.

 For the wars of which every man fights is endless.
 There is no true victory to it,
 The smoke never clears until we lie defeated, 

 But we continue to fight. 

 Because these wars are not about victory or succession,
 Rather keeping our chins up and our eyes glaring proud even when you know you have no chance to leave the battlefield alive. 

 Not backing down,
 Not giving up,
 Not surrendering.

 We fight for our army,
 Our supporters,
 The people who won't let us surrender.

 We fight to see their smiles each day,
 And love them,
 And cherish them. 

 So I say once more the battle is almost won,
 And I shall polish my boots and bayonets,
 Only to tarnish with blood and dirt and gunpowder,
 To stand with chin raised and eyes glaring 

 In preparation to fight another day.