He said, “Everything’s under control,”
A mantra meant to calm the soul.
With steady hands, composed and sure,
He built a life he’d not endure.
The signs were there obscure, subdued
A glance, a pause, a shifting mood.
But we, too wrapped in daily pace,
Missed all the cracks beneath his face.
He bore the weight no man should bear
Alone, unseen, without a prayer.
No hand to hold, no soft reprieve,
Just empty hearts that made him grieve.
The one who vowed to stand beside,
Instead, cut deep with scorn and pride.
Her love, a ghost; her words, a blade
Each day, his worth was stripped, betrayed.
Her bloodline watched and pulled the thread,
Until he bled, until he pled.
They dreamed of castles, gold and glass,
While he gave all first breath to last.
He fought to feed, to clothe, to care,
While drowning in their cold despair.
They asked for more, then turned away,
Ungrateful mouths that cursed his name.
No thank you came, no kind support,
Just judgment passed like cruel sport.
And yet he stayed, and yet he tried,
Until the light was gone inside.
We ask ourselves what broke his soul,
What shattered hope, what took its toll.
But answers fade and shadows stay,
As we remember him today.
They wore God’s name like holy skin,
Yet cursed him loud without a sin.
A minister who should have prayed,
Instead, wished death and death obeyed.
What God is this they claim to know?
Whose love runs cold, whose mercy’s show?
We trusted them, as we knelt as one
But now we ask: Which God has won?
Their wish came true, and we are torn.
Where is the comfort for the mourned?
Who answers now, when saints deceive
And we, the trusting, only grieve?
—The Wounded Fighter