A Working Day

While duty pries the soldier from the safety of his slumber, 
Morning dew reveals itself beneath the raging red of dawn.

Inside this newly-crowded house,
He changes into his worn coat
And a pair of tired, battered boots
Beneath layers of socks and vests.

Then, with the grace of an army,
Some one-hundred-thousand strong,
His quiet campaign continues,
Down the staircase, along the hall.

The clock strikes the hour as he advances upon his checkpoint.
He is stunned.
And so silent that the sound of a pin would shatter like glass.

In the mirror, an enemy;
With frail, pale hands stained black by soot
And arms on the verge of collapse.
Not a man, but some hollow shell.

With no time to pause or ponder,
Or authority to retreat,
He charges his way through the front door
To proceed with the long, hard, march

to his daily post.