The Scout

Watching comrades die,

Their cut bodies in his eye,

Their dying screams in his brain,

He rambles forth in pain.

His legs are cut,

Crawling in the dust,

His arms are bleeding,

News are his friends needing.

Rambling on with deathly sickness

His mind a home to dreamy visions,

Pain loses significance,

As things around him begin to dance,

Yet with a unreal drive,

To reach home does he strive.

Fierce loyalty pushes him on,

Teeth gritted with determination,

Thoughts of his folk,

Act as the final brushstroke,

On a masterpiece,

And give him peace.

He does this without his self in mind,

Earlier, and with ease, could he have died,

But he held on,

He pushed forth,

For you and me,

For his folk,

For his kin,

His sanity balanced on a pin,

Did he persevere.

The Scout is a legend.