Glass Rose Part 3

The war continued, but I never got sent to another conflict like I experienced at Stalingrad. My years past and I found myself working for the Russian government....
"Enough of your story, I'm tired of listening to it" screamed the young American soldier. As I sat there in my chair I saw as a commander came by my cell and gave a signal to the young soldier. "It is your time you god dame Communist" shouted the young American soldier. I followed the soldier to the room that I have past by several times in these past few weeks. We came to a small room on the other end of the hall way. I was guided into the room and ordered to sit into the chair as they started to untie me from my bonds. “Do you have any last requests before your time?" asked the soldier. “All I want is a glass rose that I could hold as my end comes" I asked the soldier. After my request he left the room as I sat there alone with my thoughts, but I knew now that my plan has finally failed, but all I could do was smile and giggle in the face of my own death. Minutes later the soldier returned with the glass rose and placed it into my hand and said, “enjoy." The soldier felt the room and sealed the room. I could see him through the small window turning a knob on the opposite wall and just walking away. Now lone with my rose I peered into its figure and all I could see was Comrade's face looking quietly into my eyes. The light that shinned into the room came through the rose to brighten the room in a rose glow, so I guess I have final touched my treasure in the sky. In the end I sat there smiling and giggling as my eyes became heavy and closed. “Is he dead?" The commander asked. “Yes sir he is dead" the soldier reported.
A wind of the morning whispers sweet nothings in your ears. A love so vague and true encircles you, but never embraces you. One who is afraid of the end and strives to be in continuous glory dies sooner then they think because one who holds fire too long burns. The shine of the gems, the figure of women, the light of a fire, and the destruction of a weapon draws the eyes of man to hold its gaze for hours on end. The wars of man of kind have been conducted on the heels of the rich dead, and slick grease, but does man ever really understand what he is fighting for, and does he ever want it to end?