I hear the wind, howling in despair,

I feel the bite, of the cold night air.

I inhale the scent of a life long past.

As I trudge through a battlefield of the lost.

I gaze upon my brethren, looking into thier eyes.

I question myself, who hurts more, who lives, or who dies?

I walk on, through this patch of scorched sand,

for I have a task, which I owe this land.

I kneel, bathed in moonlit grace.

I pray, my fingers interlace.

I implore the lord, to grant me closure.

For I have had enough of this gruesome exposure.

And as I peer, through cracked lids,

At the lost, strewn like a flowers aphids.

I hear a voice, thundering above,

I am reminded of peace, the wreath, the dove.

My heart is spared, for the moment to pass,

But i would have answers, for this slaughter en mass.

My mind feels light, but my heart lays low.

At these blades of grass, who were seen fit to mow.

I cast of the lords offering, in guilt and shame,

I wish no insult, to the creators name.

But his offering, is in cruely irony.

And he shall not find a gratefull host in me.

If for divine intervention, there is a time,

why had it not acted, to avert this haenous crime.

Why had you not acted, for the betterment of all,

instead of helping one, watching the others fall.

No, I will not accept you gift.

With a thank you, but no thank you, through the carnage I sift.

I march through the strewn bodies, tears in my eyes,

A man without a lord, without hope. or so he doth surmise.