A Mask Of Blood
Blood, the substance coursing through our veins,
what keeps us alive.
What boils when we are angry,
and whats running down my face right now.
Bullets are flying by all around me,
some leaving glowing trails, visible to the naked eye,
some only detectable by their tell tale high pitched buzz as they go by my head.
some decimating the wall I take cover behind. but the most vivid detail noticeable in my mind,
are the bullets drilling through my flesh.
Like red hot lethal metallic bees.
I don't cry out, I don't back down, I simply raise my rifle and fire back,
a bullet hit my helmet and my head snaps back as a yo-yo in the hands of a child as I fall.
As I lay on the ground I register the pain emanating from my head,
I reach up and and feel the bullet, still hot lodged in the indent created in my helmet.
I pluck it from its resting place and stick it in my pocket as a reminder to how fickle fate is.
Again, I do not cry out or back down, my only though is of my brothers and sisters fighting alongside me,
my brothers and sisters who do not experience the same fortune as me.
Who's armor, now spent gives way to light and heavy arms fire.
My brothers and sisters with family's and spouses to return to.
So I return to the battle and do what one must always do for their brothers and sisters in arms.
I prepare to lay down my life for them.
As the hours pass and the battle rages,
my face becomes covered in a mask of blood like the rest of my body.
Who's blood it is, I know.
It is my brother J's
and it enrages me to the point it makes my vision turn to the same crimson red as the blood on my face.
I drag his injured body to safety,
then go back for the other ones who are too weak to move and cover the ones who can get away on their own.
If what happened that day was defined as heroics,
than it was cut from a rougher grade of cloth than the real heroes.
but in my heart I will always know that in most of us,
lies the potential to be a hero.
If you put ordinary men and women to the test of protecting people they love in extraordinary situations,
most will match and do their best to fight back the overwhelming odds.
For me it was when my brothers and sisters were faced with death,
when we spat in its face and refused to back down and retreat,
when my expressions became unreadable,
under a mask of blood.
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Based on a dream I had, Joss if you couldn't tell "J" was you, your like a brother my man and when you were hit in the dream, the events that followed were the basis of this poem.