The thunder roars and the rain pours
black boots ***** in the mud
a serenade of feet, all in unison.

2.
The roar of artillery shells, the golden blaze of fire
the crumbling masonry, the rotten corpses
the tears of mothers and the letters from generals.

3.
The throat slashes, the mustard gas
the iron tanks, the flamethrowers
the bayonets and the noble foot soldier.

Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface

the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
our intestines and the blankets
cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses

we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered

the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
in the form of gangrene, the rats
make themselves at home feasting upon the rotten
flesh of fallen comrades while the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone

then comes the symphony of artillery
the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
the mighty foot soldiers, and
the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas

the trenches become our unwanted love
and unholiest of homes, "the tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us
constantly by our commanders

but on the contrary
these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
the illusion of life and the irony of war.....

I stand in a meadow, confused and lost,
Amidst a war won, before it's even been fought,
There are screams of agony, and flailing limbs,
Muscled warriors, and butchered wimps,
And then a river of red, not water nor blood,
Bearing men of scarlet, all seemingly mad,
There is a scream, then the world turns cold,
A revelation of the future passed on, but yet untold,
I stand in the middle of it all, invincible it seems,
A god yet a mortal, in the world of dreams.

Devastated
Mental
War

Trauma
Decapitated
Enemies

Alone
Fear
Com­bat

Tortured
Lost
Sounds
Crazy

When the very ground beneath me cracks
and my brittle sword lies broken
then I will ask that no quarter be drawn
andwhen the victor next sees the dawn,
no words of regret are spoken.

When I approach the pearly gates
treading upon the clouds above,
I will not weep for you nor I,
for I know the code we both live by
and the cruel gods that we both love.

When the victor has met his demise
and meets his victim in the next world,
let us let the past be the past
and not allow our anger to last
for you cannot shake hands when your fist is curled.

With gestures increasingly erratic with every strike
And punts as constant as ink gliding across ivory
Our vigilant artisan gathers his wisdom on combat's eve.