We have no art here
But smatterings of blood and gore;
Splashed into pretty designs
By painters who can no longer claim their craft
Using bullets as brushes

There is not music to be heard
Only symphonies of screaming dead;
Simple as they seem
They grate against the mind, adding to
The muted whispers of madness

Our dramas unfold not upon a stage;
Instead right before our eyes
No actors are perishing for
A fictitious noble motive, just us;
The poor men who were sold lies of glory

So they say to find glory in war, yet
I can find no evidence
Of glory ever stepping near these hellish parts