Dark demons visit him at night,
Nor yet disperse as day brings light.
He sweats and shakes in mortal fright,
And sees no peaceful end in sight.

His face tells of his dark despair.
No one to love, no one to care.
Some people seem to fear his stare,
Yet others never see him there.

He was a seasoned sergeant then,
And earned respect from all his men.
He helped them through the lion’s den,
Not once, but time and time again.

No need to say what things he’s seen,
How man behaves when venting spleen,
And changes from what once he’d been,
To hard of heart and spirit mean.

He now begs coppers in the street.
Wears shabby sandals on his feet.
And you would see, if you should meet,
That on his face is etched defeat.

But you were there! And you were too!
And you! Who witnessed blue on blue.
What makes you of a different hue?
Were you bonded with a stronger glue?

Or is it just the voice of fate,
That says how each one will relate,
To overdose of war and hate?
Then bills each one a different rate.

Perhaps that’s true, for it is found,
That some, with eyes cast to the ground,
May only see the crawling things,
With slimy trails and deadly stings.
Yet some may look towards the sky,
(There with the grace of God go I),
To praise the heavens up above,
Then hate leaks out, and in creeps love.

So praise the stars, if fate has said,
That you may rest at ease in bed
No sweats, no dreams, no fear, no dread,
No haunting face of those long dead.

Then say a prayer for Sergeant ‘Mac’
Who fate gave pride then took it back.
Who fate made strong then made him crack.
Whose life was bright, but fate turned black.