God knows it's hard lost in this putrid camouflage. The world like faded rings. Disappearing outward. Corpses in battle dress aim their guns. The child and the soldier share a singular bed. They are the same man. The same victim.
God talks, but I can't understand his language. I listen anyway. Confident there is more to his message than the words.
Lonely battle fields beckon. Dirty hookers with too many munitions. A surplus of skin and disease as tempting as it is infectious.
God listens. Bored with our petty complaints. More meat than grain. More gravy than sugar. The end of the world is swimming in numbers. It's up to us to keep counting.
That's what I am. A broken army with too many graves to dig. That's what we are. A war without purpose.