The frozen ground caked in dried mud,
Heated with the warmth of the freshly-spilt red blood.
It sprang from the victims like a pan boiling over,
Sizzling there until a silence of the revolver.
All except for what can’t be hidden,
Not from the ground, not from the linen.

Bodies scatter about the field,
Fibers fro carpet, oranges from peel.
Arms and legs, hands and feet,
Litter the frozen ground with defeat.
Until it becomes a question, the question:
Is this war? or is this death.

Some may argue both, some may say neither.
But honestly, it’s about those who won’t be there.