Michael

Michael

Though Michael was a gentle soul
He would stand and fight,
For Michael always knew his mind
And stood for what was right.

Michael loved the football games
And could have been a star,
But did so many other things
He would've been stretched too far.

In School he watched every game
While playing in the band,
Marching with precision,
His trumpet in his hand.

As a medic he went to war,
There was no braver man,
Dodging bullets to lend aid
Michael made his stand.

Though Michael was a gentle soul
Some could never understand,
When called upon for mercy,
He never stayed his hand.

I was there with him
When Michael met his end,
It matters not how it came,
I lost my best friend.

A misty figure stood over him
And looked across the land,
A sword hanging at his side
And a trumpet in his hand.

As I stood there watching
I thought of many things,
Then stared in awe at the sight
When Michael spread his wings.

From a dream, I wrote this two weeks before Michael died of wounds. There are a few here that will understand the term mercy in the context used.