WW I
The benevolence is masked by dead blood.
The droning of the dead and decaying is far too familiar.
I have ransacked my insides,
but have found nothing but a rank and rotted spirit.
I am numb to the wails of the hurt and dying.
The gunpowder that I used to smell
is now embroidered into my soul like a religion.
My heart still pounds like the enigma of an abyss.
The phantoms that haunt the trenches
lie in pools of merciless blood and bullets on the field.
With impact of body and bullet,
I feel the implosion beginning to take place.
The residual effect of the bullet with my name on it
will be the nameless, faceless stench of another corpse.
