The unwritten line

Spitting hot orange flames
It stayed there.
It melted down on itself,
Tears glistening its cheeks.
It stayed within
Fuming, rattling, glowering
But unable to move.
It stayed with me
Within me.

The Dying Soldier

A pale of blood it is,
That trickles down my nape
I lay fatigued
After a fierce battle.
Failure doesn't hurt;
No pride too
Of being the martyr;
Just indifference.
It goes down my nape, this indifference,
As I wait for the vultures
Does it matter if I won?
I would still be dead.
Does it matter if I lost?
I would still be dead.