Author Information
1915
Blood stained. Torn.
We limped up a muddy cliff to a place we now know as Hell.
We bathe in the sun, yet it doesnt reach within. It's like a poison that we drink but dont taste. Like children with no vision, we walk into this prison. Guns rattle.
-Echoes of George's suicidial, single shot to the head still plays on.
Men fall slowly, stupidly eating the dirt brought to their faces.
Lost boys. Eating Dirt.
This is a dirty place.
Filth. Blood. Red rimmed eyes.
Writhing minds eating the fruit of Eden.
This is my view of the slaughter.
ANd, yes I write with pity, and suffused with horror.
Yet I barely blink when I fire off the shots, each shot to a man. One shot is yet to be shot for me. Each fate in a single calibur of powder incased by shrapnel.
And yes, I too will eat dirt.
