On the War Path

Frayed whispers drift in the dark.

Bloodied laughs lurk in search for prey.

Say, “What is the cost of one’s life?”

A drop of blood spilt under the merry snow.

And tears mixed with crimson, the smell of gunpowder heavy in the air.

Limbs flying like wings.

Shots are ringing.

Creeping and crawling like the bugs fleeing on the earth.

Dirtied, grasping gravel, inching closer to death.

Disturbing the quiet spell with a splattering of hell.

Rupturing, fracturing the mind’s in a spell, a twirl;

a dance then it splits,

with unavoidable euphoria.

Grim smiles and greetings, waving at the Reaper.

The Sky so grey, a turbulent feeling.

Are there any regrets? It’s too late for regret.

You can only fret at what actions have sounded.

Grinding teeth to a slow halt.

It’s too late to revolt. A revolution is already underway.

But you won’t be there to see it.

Which side do you think? To your dismay.

As you leave your last breath,

and hope you aren't forgotten as you lay. All is still and silent.

All that's left is just decay.