Lay down your arms.
Hang up your gear.
Quiet the war still echoing in your head.

Age has relieved you of your post,
though not your skill,
nor your will.
Only the rules —  written and otherwise.

 So you move through twilight,
unseen among the crowd.

Step around the bottle.
Ignore the pills.
Both whisper promises
they were never meant to keep.

Do what good you can
in the fading light.

Heroes were never real anyway.

Only leather worn smooth,
hands scarred by work,
and ordinary souls
carrying extraordinary burdens.

The measure of a man
was never victory,
but what remained of him
when the battle was done.

Home by Christopher "Beau' Bowman