As I stare into the end of the bayonet,

my grief enfolds me, disheartened that I have sunk so low.

Saddened to have finally reached the end of the line,

my last breath catches in my throat

as I prepare to go home.

The images of my life arrive, like clichés,

to flash before my eyes; I watch unfazed,

and even through the happiness, all I see is failure.

I am immune to optimism, idealism failed me.

But seeing the reality of my world is what cured my insanity.

Accepting that I was not perfect painted my canvas with the brightest colours,

as I found myself in corners of the Earth I had only seen in magazines.

The selfishness of my final act is not lost on me,

even though, try as I may, there are loved ones who I cannot let go of.