The Battle of Clomid

Five solid days they marched.
Waiting for as many days
for the flood to subside.
They struggled, single file,
perfectly creased
pristine white uniforms,
through the torturous heat.
Dizziness, nausea,
they were too green.
succumbing to destiny.
The battle was lost.

Again, they went forth.
The numbers swelling.
They cut off the flood early.
Deciding strategy quickly.
Marching two by two, with
perfectly creased
pristine white uniforms.
Seasoned now, with the raw knowledge of
failure.
The unexpectedly long battle
finally ceased.
Tears, sweat, sinew insufficient.
Demise.

Regrouping, tactical positioning.
They waited.
(always the waiting)
Finally - answering the call,
two by two,
facing forward,
the drone of their marching
drowned out their
collective thought.
Does this brave face hide
the fear gurgling in my throat
at failing at our last stand?

Trembling, they beg.
Please, do not have let us gone in vain.
Let there be something to remember us for.
The pressure of cliche.
Is third time really a charm?