The Feast of War

The raven’s beak runs red, and the soldier wishes he were not the last meal

The sky flecks black with their wings

There are moans

They will not last

There were fathers and sons, they are that no longer

Many men

Many dead

Many screams

Many Bled

The medics will live with the pain

The soldiers will live without limbs and peace

The flags will live beyond their breaths

And mean nothing to them any longer

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