[Poetry] Untitled

"Captain to Medic 1, one wounded soldier in critical condition en route in T-minus two minutes. Prepare 

the operation table for emergency surgery - we don't want to lose this one," he cries loudly over the

radio without copy, a blind hope that the someone at the tent may have heard his transmission

because there's not much time for any confirmation. Time ticks, and without immediate care,

the body will be lost to the abyss and further isolate itself from the world and sink further

into Alice's hole, from which prognosis is poor. And this body has seen before the reality

of no treatment - this feeling of agonizing loss and defeat turns damaged skin and flesh

inward upon itself. It forces retreat to the medic station in the safe zone within the

heart for healing mercy from this twisting, relentless, aching pain. Unbeknownst 

to the squad, the heart has also been afflicted with the ruthless plague. Disease

is endemic to all the soldiers of this battlefield, resistance is useless, and this

time, Evil fooled the captain with an unexpected double-sided attack. Any 

grunt can observe the haunting red canvas spattered across the front lines, 

but this pathogen found a new entry point not even the captain suspected 

– a backdoor ambush which succeeded in the destruction of both front

lines and the mission control itself at home base, thus eliminating the 

means or will to fight the good fight, to carry on the mission, to give 

hope and renewed life. This body wants to help, not hurt, and yet in 

its yearning for giving and giving finds itself with a relentless

internal hemorrhage at the vitals vessels of the pericardium

which fills with tainted blood and drowns that organ of 

goodwill but now needs the acute assistance of anyone

who will auscultate S1 and S2 amid the noise, but is 

there anyone out there to roger? The soldier moans

in agony. "Medic 1, do you copy this urgent distress

signal, over… Medic 1? Hello? We need a doctor 

to fix the soldier’s inevitable decline into the 

great darkness." Thirty seconds until arrival 

and no reply. His consciousness is fading

fast. His tearful eyes shut with the 

passive acceptance of untimely

defeat. The captain opens the

flap of the medic tent and

no physician assumes

care of the soldier.

Shit. The good 

fight is surely

over

.

Or

Is it?

She is

a warrior

brave and

strong with

unwavering

dedication and

commitment to

the good fight, to

justice and clarity,

and she sensed a frank

disturbance on the front

lines. The surgical table, sans

surgeon, has been prepared for

the shocked soldier – the causality

of life’s bitter cruelties. But the table

contains no forceps, no scalpels, no #10

sterile blades for incision to carefully find

and repair the leaky vessels still gushing their

contents into the pericardial sac. Nope. Instead

of tools placed atop a surgical pad, the battered

soul sees a chair with food on a white tablecloth,

iodine replaced with drink, and a second chair nearby

for the warrior. “Let us find the root of this evil force," she

declares. "Together, we shall find light. For, the plague cannot 

infect the deepest parts of our myocardium. Woven intimately into

the tiniest trabecula carna of our ventricles, we share a common vision 

for the world - that desire to leave the world better than we first found her.

This bond is mightier than the most potent of toxins, more resistant than any 

bacteria, and more important than anything in conquering the great evil. Times 

are not easy in pursuit of these goals, but we shall persevere and advance forward. 

This bond we share, our truest realizations, will carry us across the raging battlefield 

with the strength of five million brigades, you shall see.” She embraced the soldier and

her touch, her selflessness, her presence in the worst of times, dispelled the evil from his 

heart. His body is healed, his strength anew, and his emotions stabilized. How did she know 

to arrive at the medic station? Was it simply chance? No. Their commonality transmits on the

battlefield louder than any radio signal could. Shared respect and concern for our comrades in battle

reveals the soldier and the warrior within us all – it displaces blood in the pericardium with overflowing 

pride.

 --

A poem dedicated to my fellow soldiers and warriors who rescue me, who remind me of our fight, and who provide light in times of darkness. Thank you.