If life is my reward for being a good angel, then death is my return to that family I have forgotten I hold close to my heart.

In the orders of command, amidst this war of ideals, I find solace that the friends who know my name and my true face, treat me as though I am still that angel who has yet to fall.

I have never expected my superiors to even care that I have a thought, never mind take the time to tell me.

I do not broadcast what I think to them, I wait for my orders and keep shit simple.

This is the way of a grunt who is shorter than the greenest recruits.

Grandma, I think the worst has passed.
I will be out of this mess real soon.
Will I make it when I get home?
The war is all I remember.
What is the reason for killing farmers thousands of miles away? Does Uncle Sam need a rice paddy to know his footsteps? Or are we just doing what we always do because we know no different?

I cannot come back here, it is dark, even in the sun.