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Description
Death carries a burden of beauty.
And for all that we see of decay,
You must for see the artistic licence amongst the battlefield wounds.
Bleed the red that blends within tarnished shrapnel,
Some may say each brave solider to his own,
He bares an artists will, his gunpoints like the tip of a brush,
Aim…fire…
The blow of the barrel and the bullet protruding from His skull.
That can hold beauty can it not?
The gangrene setting in to show us this was justified.
Can God himself, if he exists in such callus times,
Mark good will in the killings of such young?
Or does our God in all of us play devil to our trigger finger,
And blotch out reason from the minds.

Description
Death carries a burden of beauty.
And for all that we see of decay,
You must for see the artistic licence amongst the battlefield wounds.
Bleed the red that blends within tarnished shrapnel,
Some may say each brave solider to his own,
He bares an artists will, his gunpoints like the tip of a brush,
Aim…fire…
The blow of the barrel and the bullet protruding from His skull.
That can hold beauty can it not?
The gangrene setting in to show us this was justified.
Can God himself, if he exists in such callus times,
Mark good will in the killings of such young?
Or does our God in all of us play devil to our trigger finger,
And blotch out reason from the minds.