Going Home

I'm sitting in Kyrgyzstan, waiting on a flight as I write this. I'm excited nervous as hell at the same time. I'm sure that this poem isn't going to be all that great, but hey. Art has no wrong answer

A war, a fight, too long to stand,

A beast within, writhing to claim the hearts of men.

Dust and wind, heat and snow,

Like opposites that train to swallow the timid.

The strikes that have wounded my soul, 

Signals screech to inform the fallen...

My heart stopped for my brother.

A night that will haunt us all...

Alas, the term is complete, 

Our firing has ceased, 

The time is nigh to return,

Valiant heroes, and hardened warriors.

Yet, I feel a sting, a twinge...

I long for her touch, awaiting the embrace.

My soul is torn. I fear the return. Why?

I am no hero. I fear the praise.

I failed that night. My muscles immobile.

I journeyed to fight weathered veterans,

Guerrillas and cowards. Yet I was powerless.

I am no hero. I failed my brother...

Author's Note

I don't know if this will make sense or strike anyone... It's my art. I'd like to improve upon it, so give me some advice on how to do it. I appreciate the help. Thank you.