The morning light crept in over the horizon of the Iraqi desert, with only emptiness around us.  Sweat fell continuously off my face, as the intoxicating heat from the blazing sun ricocheted off the sand onto my weakened body. It has been a month since I first entered the war around me; I watched the sun rise, and the moon appear each day hoping this memory would finally conclude.  The reasons for me being brought here were unavailable to my mind, for I hadn’t reached a conclusion on what lesson or answer I would find that linked this Godless place to my family. Across the room from me, was the large African-American male who had pulled me from my near experience with death on my first arrival. Staring at me with disgust, I had noticed these empty gestures that had been made since the beginning of my journey through this memory. I had become a “trader” in their eyes and a coward for refusing to fight in combat, one that I hadn’t picked to fight in. Blame was placed upon my shoulders for the men who had been killed in the last month; I refused to shoot a single person and the seven men who were willing to shoot their guns stood around me with hate in their hearts for me. I began to miss the memories were no one around me was able to see or communicate with me. I grabbed my gun and tightly held on to it with all the might in my body as I walked out of the same-old shelter that had covered my back from the soaring bullets for a month, but now leaving the metal shack behind me felt safer than staying. I could feel the men behind me, pondering as my back was faced in their direction. They would all surely cover for the man who got rid of a problem in their company.  As I awaited the sound of a gunshot, the bullet that would end my miserable existence in this world, I thought about how this could be my way out of all the troubles. I would no longer have to expect myself to travel into the memories of my family, and now I could finally die without having to commit the crime myself. Furthermore pitching myself back into reality I noticed I hadn’t been pierced by the bullets of my admirers. Turning around as quickly as I could the men rested in the old shack, not paying a bit of attention to me any longer. As I turned around to continue my walk, I felt a sense of disappoint, preparing myself for death had actually been quite easy and almost a relief as the hell around me was finally about to disperse.  Suddenly, I placed my foot on something that no longer felt like the desert sand below me. I could hear the sound of something crinkling from the pressure of my boot. My mind went back to the first solider to fall victim in our company from the wrath of the silent sands beneath our feet. A bomb had “won the deadly game of chicken,” is what the large African American solider said. I stepped back slowly ready for my death to claim its prize, but this time was the same as the last. I stood there staring at a dirty white object underneath my foot, before finally realizing my potential killer was only a letter. As I gently consumed the paper in my hands, I realized that the writing on the piece of paper was a poem. Wiping off the dirt covering some of the letters, I finally could make out the words written down, word for word the poem read,