The Beauty Of War

You know what was the strangest thing about it all?
I had finally stopped counting.
I stopped keeping track of every time
the shell fragments
whistled past my head.
I had become numb to all of it;
the panic of so many moments
set loose with paralyzing terror,
and the obsequious resignation
of the whole of humanity
to the yoke of senselessness.

I stopped hearing the agonies
of the random wounded and dying,
lifting an eternal hurricane
of hopeless shrieking voices
screaming in a maelstrom.
They pleaded and cursed.
They bargained and pledged.
They called out for acceptance.
It was too much for me to think about.
I wanted to live.

The impact hit me so hard
the kiss of oblivion atomized the universe.
This sudden gift
of freedom from the horrid world was fleeting.
A searing dawn seeped through my ragged veins.
It always comes back.
When I realized it was me,
laying at the well's bottom of my vision,
I finally understood
God sent me to hell here on Earth
and that the whole of his creation
is stiffly rooted in everlasting pain
and perpetual anguish.
Before it all diffused,
I realized it was only me
and it was all my fault.