The Bugler

The bugler sounds the reveille
A haunting heralding call.
Awake my soul, cast off the night,
Day beckons with the dawn.

A quest, conquest, and endless hope
Charge on, tally ho, go forth.
Catch the dream, oh chosen one,
Opportunity lingers naught.

'Tis not so much the end result,
but the pursuit of it that counts.
A restless and compelling march.
The future bids us come.

Foes raise their leery voices high
And caution screams to halt.
"Do not, cannot, and should not go."
"Shut up, be still, depart."

Adrenaline courses through the veins,
Tomorrow awaits the bold.
The artist paints the future bright,
Each stroke a slight of hand.

Alas, the bugler plays again,
A somber, wearying song.
The lonesome taps now mourn the sun
as it withers from the sky.

The fog rolls in,
obscuring sight,
The air is heavy, hard.
The trudging soldier groans.

Brick walls, chasms great,
now stay the savior's hand.
Hope lost, darkest night,
Floundering, desperate deeds.

No moonlit night will sooth the soul,
It purpose all but lost.
Gone now the mighty deeds of yore.
Gone too, all visions bright.

No lullaby to welcome rest.
No peaceful dreams await.
Only night, painful night.
And endless wait.

The watchman hears the ticking clock,
It slows.  It fades.  It stops.
The darkest hour lingers on,
An agonizing fate.

Until a faint and distant light
A hope to ward off death,
Brings anticipation and relief.
And then. .  .

The bugler sounds the reveille
And the march begins again.