He rose with the sun and packed his soul,
Box by box, goal by goal.
Five long hours behind the wheel,
Every turn a prayer, every mile surreal.
He sweat blood under the weight of goodbye,
But not once did he pause to cry.
For what’s a little pain, a little delay,
When your heart is finally on its way?
He left behind a house of lies,
Where love wore masks and truth just dies.
She feasted on his hope each night,
Till he chose family, chose the light.
He drove 280 miles with joy in his chest,
Singing to the wind, feeling truly blessed.
With every mile, his spirit rose high,
A man escaping shadows, reaching for sky.
He pictured the hugs, the laughter, the door,
Of the home he had longed for, aching and sore.
Twenty minutes left just twenty to go,
And he’d be wrapped in the love he used to know.
He thought, “I’m finally home, I made it through,”
Not knowing fate had one last cruel due.
The road still warm from his hopeful tread,
Would soon fall silent he’d be gone instead.
A welcome planned, a feast of grace,
But fate had other plans to chase.
Tragedy struck like a silent thief,
Robbing joy, replacing it with grief.
From 280 miles to almost near,
Then ripped away by something unclear.
Doctors silent, families unsure,
No prayer loud enough to cure.
The universe turned its back that day,
Or worse helped pave the way.
Who whispered death into the night?
Was her curse the final bite?
She wished him gone and he was torn,
From those for whom he was reborn.
Tell me, God what was the crime?
To long for love, to seek his peace?
To leave the poison he once called home,
To finally feel, no more alone?
And now she eats from what he gave,
Smiling by his unmarked grave.
No justice here, no balanced scales,
Just screams beneath the mourner’s veils.
Was his love for us not enough?
Were our prayers not loud or tough?
Or did the stars and sky agree
That joy was not his destiny?
Now we ask and ask in vain,
In echoes soaked with salt and pain:
Who robbed him of his rightful days
The devil, fate, or heaven’s gaze.
—The Wounded Fighter