World War U.

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.