Poetry 25 Years
I was cleaning my rifle, pistols and my gear;these were my tools for the past six years.Now the bores are shiny and bright,And I swab the desert off those old battle sights.My webbing was worn and smelled of sweat.Many hours were logged wearing that vest.Ceramic plate armor was flaking and wearing away.I remember them saving me on so many days.Much like a sword, these tools were my soul,through days of torment and nights that were cold.I've seen the world through a professional soldier's eyeand...