Here I sit with a hollow face

as the souls of my fallen brothers continue to haunt me.

It is like their haunted screams envelop my ears and my heart.

The war is over, but the scars remain.

Here I sit, flying home after war. My body is all beaten and torn.

Somehow, this isn’t worse than what really happened.

I left my soul in that battlefield, but hundreds of others left theirs as well.

Those people were my brothers, and now their souls will haunt me and the fields forever.

My body may heal in the coming weeks, 

but the scars will remain. Ones that aren’t even my own.

What was once laughter has turned to silence.

Joy, happiness, brotherhood – it is all dead. Left in a field where it can’t be retrieved.

I close my eyes, and I still see their faces lit with firelight, voices echoing. 

Names I once whispered are now caught in my throat.

I see the dirt, the crimson rain, the chaos,

the eyes that stare upward, unblinking and empty.

The soldiers I once knew are now the face of war.

They are the souls that I will be haunted by for years to come.

Wounds may heal,

yet the scars will remain.