Victory

The dead is the ground,
as far as the eye can see.
Few living make the sound,
of an agonizing plea.

Decomposing flesh fills the air,
that reeks of a rotting smell.
The dead lie with their nowhere stare,
gazing into hell.

Deep dark circles have their place,
from which dirt once fill.
Death is the look upon the face,
of those with the crimson spill.

Swinging door on a broken hinge,
replaces the battle cry.
The black wind pushes, and creates a noise,
that drowns out the sound of the wounded boys,
left their to die.

Who will claim this victory?
One dead more than the other?
Who will claim this victory,
For the killing of thy brother?