The recoil of death sent roaring at another chest,
shoulder feels it, mind knows it, eyes see it.
A figure crumbling in the distance, a silhouette.
In the dusty remains of what used to be civilisation,
a lone shadow on the ground, draped in black, to hide in the night.
High above the dead, far away, a man alive lay, not moving.
Seeing in green, hand on a win mag, finger curling tenderly around the trigger,
A distant rumbling, help on its way, alone, an angel of death, waiting.
Another figure draped in black, another soft report, another victim,
another entry in the notebook. Death is the price for a conscience.
Wars are fought with weapons, won by men. Life of the other doesn’t matter.
Men who kill deserve to die, but if i kill you, there will be just as many murderers.
Help is close, wrap up the weapons, killing for humanity trumps killing for god.
Walking away from the life of war is harder than fighting battles for life.

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