Cost of War

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Dark and dank, the charred flesh moans,

Through brittle teeth, with shattered bones,

She sings the sepulcher songs of old.

Sitting fast, his mind a hellish tomb,

Years of torture; observed and unknown,

He thinks of deserts, and the man he knew.

Writhing still in argent salves,

He puts away his childish things,

And dreams of peace- to sleep.

To sleep, to dream, to sing,

To rise in dawns first light,

And rise above the death of night.

Pyrrhic VictoryWhere stories live. Discover now