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His Pockets

As he walks across another battlefield of gore
He no longer remembers why he joined this war
Studying the mounds of bodies made up of his kin
Realizing no matter the outcome he’ll never win
Collecting all the tags from around all of their necks
Attempting to do what he can to pay his respects
Just how many more friends or family could he lose
His heart always aching and sore like a constant bruise
He places their name tags in his pocket with the others
And solemnly walks away from his fallen brothers