Soldier Boy Poem by Dash Mcpeek

When I die and my body is made ready for it's rest as I depart...

Then inform those who attend to this fallen flesh that I wish for my hands to be folded into fists across my still heart

That they who pay what small respects I may have earned in this life
may know well that I fought in the strife...
that I contended,

And what times I had fallen I never failed to rise again somehow
And what times I had prevailed nor took I then too great a bow

Knowing the gravity of the battle that yet remained
and how yet with the blood of the fallen the ground was stained

And let those who pass over to gaze a last time upon this shadow now shading my brow
see how well that the earliest places of my play somehow

Had formed for that great contest my hands
and had fitted my fingers for that battle's demands

And with what zeal I had risen to that desperate fight
and not turning had engaged that struggle in spite

And coming again - not a spotless hero upon a white steed
as so many fairy tales seemingly need

Not such as these, but they saw me arrive
All bloody and broken and bruised, and barely alive

For my destiny was not great glory but crippled by a cross;
Not gain for me but endless loss -

To fight and again until I fall, to give my once and give my all
for that greater glory yet to come
in a new birth, a new day, a new home.

Lay a kiss to that brow - never a man somehow.
For one must first be a boy
who rises to manhood and never I was, knew not that joy.

I came, I lived and I passed a soldier here.
I will leave this life in peace without regret, without fear -

For I have risen to the pursuit of my purpose on earth
and have fulfilled in the full the call of my birth

Slumber sweetly then silent soldier boy
As dims the glow across your face
The furrowed brow of discontent
and lingering light of boyhood's grace

With spirit bruised but never broken
Come softly then to Heaven's door
Not with honor nor a token
But bearing scars of ancient wars

Dignity laid to death and all joys
The tender brow that took the blow
And all the things that little boys
Should never even have to know

But that battle fierce and warfare long
That called you from your childhood's day
Now returns you, little one,
To the places of your play

Dream sweetly then, and only sweet,
And not of all that we have seen
Of bloody war's destruction
Nor think on what we might have been

But whisper soft, a little sad
That hard times come again no more
Home is the little soldier boy
Home at last from the war.

I forgive you frail frame of flesh, frail from my birth,
for this fault and failure - this bitter betrayal that bends me now back to the earth.

As I walk boldly into that last night,
I regret only that I remain to linger not longer that I might further the fight.