And from the battlefield so does he emerge.
Beaten blood stains his memories.
Such beathy in destruction apon the devils backbone
such powers converge.

Bodies gather tossed into a heap.
he's silent even in his thoughts.
For the madness to one's self is better to keep.

Dying moments at a time.
the field may change death is the same.
Where humans are numbers with a toll
up the ladder he does climb.

The honest view over shadows the
ignorant few.
Tortured are the memories trapped inside.
Cold steel to which tonight he does confide.

Blood stainded bages how they do gleam.
After years of the twisted vision.
No side has to be right it does seem.

The blood is embedded in his very soul.
No matter the side.
The the memorie alone takes it's toll.    

Often we recall alone we regret.
nightmares creep into are waking hours.
So is the victem of the memory forwhich you cannot forget.