Racing thoughts of eternity, Conflicting ideas of morality, Front line center. Musket gripped by sweaty palm, In hell for an instant, everything but calm. On bended knee, holding breath, Powder of fire, smoke of death. Aiming at nothing, standing tall, Finger the trigger, wait for the call. Ringing noise of flying led, Left its mark, stained by red. Was it he, or was it I? Fall to my knees, let out a sigh. Was it he, or was it I? Not so sure I want to die. Into the gates I long to enter, Here ends my task, Front line center.