Temper and Tranquility - Combat Medic

Smoke for lungs,
gravel breath
I woke where angels forget death.
Limbs like lead,
faith torn thin,
dirt in places skin had been.
Screams were lullabies,
rats for kin
hell didn’t kill me,
it let me in.

I was the stretcher no one carried.
A ghost stitched into war.
No dog tags.
No name.
Only shrapnel and shame.
They called me “thing”
and left me there
no prayers,
just salt in open air.

But I learned the art of splintered grace
stitching wounds in shattered place.
No medals.
No command.
Just trembling breath and open hands.
Where shells fall,
I kneel in static
blood-soaked boots
I’m the combat medic.

Saw men become meat,
angels with blackened teeth.
Held hearts inside my hands
and whispered “breathe.”
Burning sky,
lungs of glass
I learned to stand
where cowards passed.

They told me “heal”
but gave no thread
so I bled
and called it light instead.
Took hell and made it
halfway home
enough to patch
a soul alone.

I learned the art of splintered grace
stitching wounds in shattered place.
No medals.
No command.
Just trembling breath and open hands.
Where shells fall,
I kneel in static
blood-soaked boots
I’m the combat medic.

Now I run toward screams,
not from them.
No armor.
Just instinct and tendon.
I sew together dying songs,
give silence somewhere it belongs.

The fight ain’t noble,
but it’s real.
They fall
I make them feel.
I can’t undo the grave they’ve seen,
but I can clean the war machine
that lives inside their quiet ache
and teach them how to bend, not break.

I carry no weapon,
but I hold the line.
I tear off pieces of myself
to keep them alive.
I don’t need saving.
I save.
And when I can’r
I stay.

This is the creed I carved in bone:
No one dies here all alone.
I kneel where angels dared not tread
hands still shaking, eyes still red.
I make peace from the frantic
deathless love
I’m the combat medic.

And when your war becomes too loud,
your breath a flare in screaming clouds,
I will be there
not whole, not clean
just someone who has
walked between.

I learned the art of splintered grace
stitching wounds in shattered place.
No medals.
No command.
Just trembling breath and open hands.
I won’t ask who started it
I just heal it.
I’m your combat medic.