The Fight After the Fight
by Michael Doyle

The first death you see
Strips away a layer of life's dignity.
It stays with you like an aura you wear
While you fight the pangs of despair.

The pain grips you by the heart.
As you look into the eyes, and life departs.
Whoever tells tales of war's glory
Has probably only seen from outside the story.

Losing a brother or sister in battle
Is a lesson learned, more than a saber's rattle.
It's the pain in a rucksack's layered carry
As you remember the souls of those you bury.

There is little more to be done than to move on.
But at night, you remember the dead and gone.
To think of this in the Christmas season,
Feels to me like a strange kind of self-treason.

Alas, still, here I am, thinking of you
And wishing I drank to give you your due.
All I have is this quiet moment of misery.
It's another layer of my life's mystery.

This then is the fight after the fight.
I pray just to make it through another night.
Not thinking about what it is I now lack.
But living to honor your fade to black.

It was said that the Chaplin would be available. 
Yet that required more words than I was capable.
Steadying my grit instead for my brothers, left and right.
I determined to man myself up for the next fight.

While I wondered if I myself remained efficient,
The Jesus I know has always been sufficient.
Going where needed, I locked up with intensity,
Carrying a memory of you, in its full immensity.

Carrying a ghost has always proven itself heavy.
Little by little, we do our best to conceal it as we bury.
Rumor is that we are only responsible for our own weakness.
And so in this season, we seek our measure of happiness.

Saying one more prayer through interlinked fingers,
I salute you as my old memories bring tears and linger.
I bury myself in the gift of my new self.
Blessed by your memory, and a carol from the wooden shelf.

(c) December 5, 2025   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved