The Final Hour
In shadows deep, he stood alone,
A Soldier carved from steel and bone.
Through wars of dust and skies of flame,
He wore his scars without a name.
His brothers fell; he kept the line,
But left behind, he’d lost the time.
The blood had dried, the guns went cold,
Yet in his mind, the war took hold.
The world saw strength in his every stride,
But we never knew the storm inside.
Beneath the armor, cracks had grown,
In silent battles fought he couldn’t own.
No bullets flew, no enemies bled,
Yet something darker filled his head.
The battlefield was gone, erased,
But demons stayed to take its place.
In empty rooms, he fought their grip,
No comrade near, no hand to grip.
The nights were long, the silence screamed loud,
Silent cries for help went through the shroud.
Until one day, the choice was made—
No medals earned, a price was paid.
With trembling hands, he chose his end,
No victory left, no strength to spend.
He fired a shot that none of us heard,
A final breath, without a word.
The weight he carried crushed his soul,
And the darkness swallowed him whole.
Now the world will never know
The depths of pain that overflowed.
He fought a war no eyes could see,
And lost the fight, eternally.
And so he sleeps, forever still,
A life undone by an unseen will.
For those who march, or those who stay,
The darkest battles may end this way.
© Jake Kingler, 2024
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