War Determines Right From Wrong

The guns are still firing, bang bang bang, But the sound doesn't register with comatose minds. Old boots trudge through mud as if it were wet concrete, The heavy feet move on though their energy is depleted. The kit brings them down with worthless weight, Bullets and bombs enliven the dull sky but kill the men, They, sleeping soldiers, walk on incognizant of the brawling guns, Death waits for nothing, but they all wait for death. 'Gas! Quick! Gas!' Urgent and desperate voices call out, Masks go on, but did they do it in time?... A man struggles, twitching and stumbling, Unearthly shrieks escape his mouth and fill the air, Making it known that the ruthless assassin has claimed one more, Sleep clouds his familiar face, His eyes bestialized and his body robbed of it's character, Blisters leaving the face they once knew unrecognizable, The agony leaves his face and takes him with it. If you recurrently relived his death as you stared at the white of his eyes, His face like the aftermath of a war he could not win, He would not escape your thoughts. Blood came gargling from his tainted lungs, Like death itself was climbing out of him, searching for another; Worthless ruby jewels crusted on his unwashed face. You would not believe in the glory of war, That war determines the right from the wrong. No; war determines only who is left.