Just as flowers are trampled upon, so are humans. With
Guns in hand, fingers on the trigger; ready to shoot. When
The pebble falls from atop the decimated building, subverted
As the men in uniform traversed over foreign soil; their
Camouflaged military attire made them look like the
Things they sought to exterminate. Never once did they think about what
Other saw them as; never once did they categorize
Themselves as the devastators; Never once did they truly define the
Name in which they categorized the people they fought against.

That thing they saw in their dreams last night, but failed to realize that when
They looked in the mirror; the thing they saw was that
Man who had slaughtered four defenseless men that other day in their own home.

Round after round again, fired at each other absentmindedly, as
Though each side was somewhat hypnotized by the madness, like rabid dogs. Each entity with
Their own background, family, come together to form the two masses they
Rendered as each other as the enemy. The question still lingers in the
Man who is pierced with bullet holes, sprawled on the ground, clinging to the
Few strands of life he had and found himself spending the
Last few moments he had in this world asking himself: Why?

How could the world come to this? Who was responsible for this madness?
Not even I know this answer, I am a bystander. I watch as men, bloody and broken fight like savages
Notice how I didn't call them human, that which was taken away the moment they killed a man
The battlefield striped them of the right to be called just that and turned them into monsters
But strangely enough, the moment they aren't war torn and blood thirsty,
mindless and blinded, selfish and compassionless is when they step off the plain
Their bodies still remember what it was like to have the power to kill a man
Their ears can hear the guttural screams of people as they were burned by bombs
Their hearts still feel as though they ran a marathon with out moving an inch
Their eyes remember the image of the humanoid figure laying on the ground, covered in red

So as I say this still more people die, more people kill, and more people are confused
I don't see this as a remedy, but as an idea, something to think about. When you think
About war, try to put your self in their shoes. Shell shocked and wounded
Try to picture your self killing another one of you, and individual.
An individual with their own dreams and ambitions. Sounds like someone you know?
It should. Because that someone would be you. There's nothing that is different between you and them.
You have a dream, they have a dream, they think about things, and so do you.
Once we can understand this, only then can we begin to answer the dying thought of that man
Covered in bullet holes and crimson:
Why?