Death of deepest midnight shade

THE night was cool with a trivial breeze,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The tang of showers, scented flowers,
Oh, how he wished they would never cease!

He did not whimper, did not wail,
Forsaken by world, isolated as he lay,
nippy as stone, like a hushed tomb,
But he didn’t moan, did not even wail.

For he did not fear, was not frightened,
Even as his heart pumped fast, his breathes tightened,
Awaiting the enemy, the cruel, ruthless enemy,
Who’d be there any moment, but he wasn’t frightened.

For he knew there were three types of death,
One who cried and sobbed till their last breath,
Afraid of the end, the end of it all,
The pain, the cries, afraid of death.

Another who silently passed away,
The natural death of old age,
But the last who breathed last with a smile,
The death of deepest midnight shade…

The latter he was, a militiaman,
Of unnerving nerves, lionhearted and brave
Yes I am, I was, will be,
HE consoled himself as he crouched in the cave.

And then when vanished the last beam,
The beam of night, of hope and dreams,
Came the awaited, the detested, the dreaded,
His heart sank, as he eyed the last beam.

He did not attempt to defend or escape,
AS the gun rose up, at the end of the day,
AS a finger stirred, and a trigger was pulled,
As it shattered the silence, of the solemn day.

Death of deepest midnight shade…