The Battlefield
She looked out the rose-stained window and watched the rain drip
Down like torrents of slippery, hot blood,
And wondered when the last bit of rain
Would fall, plummeting down to the ground in silent agony,
Vastly alone among the thousands of comrades;
She wondered most about the man she missed.
And he was in the middle of the smoke and mist,
Fighting for his life, his breathing labored and sweat a steady drip,
Wondering how many had fallen in his company of comrades,
Lying on the weeping ground, covered in their own blood,
Fear tormented his soul, and so he fought in agony,
Blinded by the salty mist of tears and of rain.
They had been battling for days, sloshing in the rain
Fighting blindly with dark shadows in the swirling mist,
Their muscles groaning almost audibly with agony;
Bone-chilling weather slowing their movements like a cold molasses drip,
And turned cold the once hot and boiling blood
That surged through the veins of the fighting comrades.
But the men had not always been such close comrades,
Friendship had been forged from training missions in the rain.
And through hardship, they had formed a bond tighter than blood,
As each one fell, he felt as though a part of his soul he missed,
As if a frozen, lethal poison was infiltrating his veins in a slow drip,
Leaving him to suffer in a crippling agony.
And all at once, he felt a new, tangible form of agony
Enter his body below his ribs. He fought to protect the comrades
Who were still standing, but weakened steadily as the dark red drip
Soaked through his clothing layers to mix with the rain.
And though he fought still, his eyes began to mist.
He thought of her then, as the world went red as with blood.
She was still standing there, looking through the windows that looked like blood,
Not knowing whether he would live or die, her heart in agony
Mourning already the part of her heart she missed.
Not seeking comfort from sympathetic comrades,
But waiting out the unjust battle, fought against an unjust reign,
Defying the corrupt power flow, trying to choke it to a drip.
Her lover, soaking in pooled blood, lie on the chilled earth with his comrades,
The fierce and futile agony of battle over, his body carefully cleansed by the rain;
A burial ceremony lost in the obscurity of the mist, and his mortality fell to earth as a stilled drip.
Down like torrents of slippery, hot blood,
And wondered when the last bit of rain
Would fall, plummeting down to the ground in silent agony,
Vastly alone among the thousands of comrades;
She wondered most about the man she missed.
And he was in the middle of the smoke and mist,
Fighting for his life, his breathing labored and sweat a steady drip,
Wondering how many had fallen in his company of comrades,
Lying on the weeping ground, covered in their own blood,
Fear tormented his soul, and so he fought in agony,
Blinded by the salty mist of tears and of rain.
They had been battling for days, sloshing in the rain
Fighting blindly with dark shadows in the swirling mist,
Their muscles groaning almost audibly with agony;
Bone-chilling weather slowing their movements like a cold molasses drip,
And turned cold the once hot and boiling blood
That surged through the veins of the fighting comrades.
But the men had not always been such close comrades,
Friendship had been forged from training missions in the rain.
And through hardship, they had formed a bond tighter than blood,
As each one fell, he felt as though a part of his soul he missed,
As if a frozen, lethal poison was infiltrating his veins in a slow drip,
Leaving him to suffer in a crippling agony.
And all at once, he felt a new, tangible form of agony
Enter his body below his ribs. He fought to protect the comrades
Who were still standing, but weakened steadily as the dark red drip
Soaked through his clothing layers to mix with the rain.
And though he fought still, his eyes began to mist.
He thought of her then, as the world went red as with blood.
She was still standing there, looking through the windows that looked like blood,
Not knowing whether he would live or die, her heart in agony
Mourning already the part of her heart she missed.
Not seeking comfort from sympathetic comrades,
But waiting out the unjust battle, fought against an unjust reign,
Defying the corrupt power flow, trying to choke it to a drip.
Her lover, soaking in pooled blood, lie on the chilled earth with his comrades,
The fierce and futile agony of battle over, his body carefully cleansed by the rain;
A burial ceremony lost in the obscurity of the mist, and his mortality fell to earth as a stilled drip.
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