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.