I, irredeemable soul.
Walk this land, filth beneath my feet,
Blood on my hands.
Sometimes, I can see.
But I can't hear.
Sometimes I can feel.
But I'm not here.
Sometimes I see my own reflection.
Who is that? I asked.
That's not me.
But the mirror's facade.
He's dead.
I see the casualties of war,
as the mist clears.
Countless bodies still.
All of them are me.
Multiple attempts.
Same result.
This time,
I join them.
The next man left alone
Will he stand?
Will he fall?
Will he lie beside us?
I guess we’ll never know.