Crying for mercy isn’t enough, the skies can’t hear,
away from civilisation, in the darkness make your home.
Embrace the soft stickiness of the muddy ground, silently,
nowhere else to go, accept the bloodied stream next to you.
Accept the red stream flowing out of you, where once was skin.
Listen to the soft gurgling of the stream as you crawl towards it,
aching and craving the cold comfort you dream of,
dip your scarred fingers into the current, feel the sweet sting.
Noise, white noise everywhere, the sound of humans, but no humanity.
What is the use of it all, man killing man in a forest far away from home?
Glorious demise does not feel glorious, in your last few moments.
Lying soaked in red, yours and others’, do you feel very brave?
Do you think of what a great deed you have done, killing for the top few,
or do you repent for all those souls now released from their bodily confines?
Neither. You think of all that you are leaving behind, a void fills you.
In a place you call home, there is someone waiting.
No matter which side you’re on, there is someone waiting.
But your bleeding self has no way to tell them that this is the end.

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