He died in clean white sheets
And a folded corner bedspread
Not on a stretcher bound.
He died in a loved ones arms
And a mother’s tear on his cheek
Not in a medic’s frantic hands.
He died in a peaceful room
And a breeze from the window
Not in the gritty desert lands.
He died in a scent of flowers
And a comb put through his hair
Not on a dishevelled ground.
Battlefield or bedside, it is still death
The death of a soldier, a father, a son
A husband, a brother, a person; someone.
If this piece moved you, let the writer know.