Why.

Bent over blades pierce through carcass meat Like a pig in a butchers back room, ready for slaughter Coughing up sludge and blood through a corroded trachea, Haunting images, burn in ashes, not seen, not wanting to be seen The rest must tramp, and trudge, and slog through muck. Boots lost, gloves severed, jackets sliced The blind limp, happy they’re not lame The lame lunge happy they they’re not blind Charges echo through thin films of heat And rip through the tired, the fatigued Like a butter knife resolutely cutting through layers of leather. Canisters of gas roll into the camp, Masks for few, scars inflammation puss puncturing blisters For the many. Orders scream, evacuations occur Bodies collapse like air is water and throats Rushing in one direct, and blocked in another Air comes in with nowhere to go A best friend, sucking and wheezing, unlucky Vomit water, an empty symbol of disgust Gather the bodies, eyes move without purpose Faces hang without expression Bloody saliva foam, a memory Nobody wants to store. There is no innocence. I feel no glory.