They always said that it was a terrible thing. Always. Yet we do it anyway, but it is far worse than a terrible thing. Much more than any words, man can ever use to describe it with. Only emotions can prove its immense awfulness better. purely utmost dread, fear, terror, pity and regret is the way I can express the truth. It washes over, quick and sudden, sending chills through out. Rendering one useless.
Only colours can explain it better: blinding flashing red: wet and warm and slowly cooling, brown: deep thick ooze slowly letting out final bubbles of souls, black: the haze of terror and shock, white: the terror of illumination, an end in suffering as it cloaks and takes the next victim.
Only smell can show it better. Rot and ruin. The rot and ruin of humanity. The wrath of the devil, torturing everlastingly the poor sods left to suffer. Crumbling, crumbling, the pedestal humanity places itself upon, as the lies told to eachother are revealed. The truth to them being worse than animals. More murderous and violent. More horrific. The rot and ruin of men. Half devoured by our own creatures of destruction. Abandoned to the chaos and wreckage of our home. Orphans, widows, childless mothers. One life, worth more. One life worth more than one for the misery a lack of them would bring.
Only sound can bring it to life. Loud, sharp, echoing sounds, not for the phonophobic. Bang. Boom. Clack. Screams and wailing. Deep piteous wails, begging for help, screaming for help, louder and louder they get, then they quiet, hushed whimpers as they realise none other than death will come for them.
Only being there can let you know the truth. The pocked ground filled with mud and blood, drowning those who stray to their murky waters, oozing with death. The dark skies, flashing with flares, echoing with gun fire, clouded and crying tears of sorrow for the wreckage man has brought to once green fields. The white of being taken, pecked out of life, by some great vengeful crow such as death. Rotting flesh. Suffering people. Screaming crying people. Misery.
I lay here, staring at my hands, cursing the race of which I am. I give my life so more people can kill and butcher eachother. My hands, dirtied and brown from the mud I dragged myself from. I lift them up and stare at the cracked nails blood rammed up them with mud, the callouses on my trigger finger. I know death is nearing as I cough and splutter, I look down, and see the stumps I know have, a manic laughter escaping, as bile blubs from my mouth I cough more specks of blood into my hands and I greet the oncoming cloud of white, like an old friend. The crow of death, beckons me over and takes me away.
Words cannot describe war. Not words, only… Only