All the world’s a battlefield
And all the soldiers merely pawns on the field,
They have their injuries and promotions,
And one soldier in his time fights many battles,
His part being seven ages. At first the baby,
Pure and unscathed by the agony of war,
Then, the young naive boy with his plastic army soldiers
And his lively imagination, bounding around
Making machine gun sound effects. And then the boy,
Dreaming during class, of joining the effort
To become a hero. Then a teen,
Full of hopes and dreams, and courageous like the lion,
Uneasy feelings filled his body, suddenly, without much contemplation,
Registering for the army,
Even with the chance of regret. And then the young adult,
Dressed in army green, and devouring whatever was served,
With eyes saddened, and beard of rugged cut,
Full of sharp commands, and news of advancements,
And so he does his part. His next age shifts
Into worn and cozy house slippers,
With a cane in his hand, and a new prescription of pills,
His old school uniform, far too large.
For he was now mostly skin and bones, and his scruffy smokers lungs,
Thinking again of nursery rhymes, coughs
And wheezing in his sound. Last battle of all,
That ends this soldier’s tale,
Is returning to his pure and unscathed senselessness,
Without hearing, without understanding, without everything

Anna Fenerty ’19