Take the Writers to war.
Let them tell of every passing
with extraordinary detail:
wails of horror deafening the sky,
crimson blood dripping from bodies, the light
of eyes darkening bit by bit, the dreary hollowness
held in that final surge of breath whispering
from dying lungs.
Take the Writers to war.
Let them describe the noise
of grown men crying at strange hours
of the night, the smell of death
leaking into their nostrils, the rush
of adrenaline when another’s fate is thrown
into their hands, how it feels to take a life
before it was ready, wondering if they had a family.
Take the Writers to war.
Try to find the beauty in chaos,
pretend there is a reason precious enough
to justify stealing the life out of so many.
Let the writer’s pens bleed as soldiers bleed
and let the people read of the war.
See their eyes cloud over as they finally comprehend
the sincerity of death and trust they remember.
