A Place of War

Did you go to the place of war? The place men leave and come back as bleeding souls, the place men come back in body bags with no story to be told, the place dementos suck the life out of your bones, the place giants are broken down like dust beneath my feet. How was it? The place of war? Was it a breath of fresh air? Or a stench of dead layers? Looking death in the eye, and watch him snare at you, ready to catch you when you lose your balance, so you hold your stance and only hope to avoid that dance, you grip your gun and patrol forward counting your bullets, watching that metal pierce through that fresh meat, as it digs deeper slicing through like the Butchers buffet, with a creeping smile on your face knowing today is not your day to dance a sly dance with death that has its conniving eye on your breath, a cold whisper in your ear "an extra day you have today, but remember tomorrow might not be yours to take".