Face the Daring Light - Sonnet 8

The first day of a battle, such a clash
Both long and dreary, waterlogged in war,
Is just as daunting, unrelenting, as
So many other firsts that came before.
There is a sense of fear; indeed, that thought,
Of trepidation, nakedness, of crime,
May bring our pining strength to all for naught,
But only for the first and maiden time.
Each battle holds, there in its calloused palm,
Once lightning strikes with thunder, shield on sword,
Reprieve from vice; And one by one, men fall,
And death is their relief and their reward.
But those who choose to face the daring light,
And thus take up their sword, put down the night.