One Of The Swarm

The scent of oh purest carnage familiar to these hills
My father hath traversed these lands decades before
My birth, a century doth pass by
The veins of the earth entrenched with the millions of dead

So few have my eyes seen in passing of glory
The aesthetics of death painted upon the canvas
So bewildering a scene

All sensations seared
All of my compassions numbed
My humanity wrenched from behind my lungs

The lusts of my bayonet, in crimson display
Have spilled upon these hands
From beneath my helmet do I glare back in sickening
Approval of the malice we have sewn

My mind sentiment of no reason
My face caressed by this foreign wind
A pulmonary incantation writhes beneath these ribs
Crying in blood drunk verse and beguiling like my conscious thought

Of descending mortar fire
Illuminates this blackest existence
A serenity wreathed in flame

The skies were beautiful as they burned
The dead roll over in their graves
Above the mortars, my ears discern
My father screaming in his grave