Pain never really is explainable,
Some pain is real, some not so much.
Some is from a sword of iron,
Some is from a sword of spite.

Mine is not from the wounds I bear,
Nor from the fear of death.
Mine is from the sights I see,
The sights I saw on the dreadful day, of the end of my time, among the living.
Life should be bright and full of happiness,
Then why was mine more like impenetrable darkness, even when I’m sure I was living.
The tortures I witnessed were more than imaginable pain , until the convulsing ceased, and Death’s arms greeted them wide and pleased.
We were all the same, like robots, clones, but each with their own misery with wounds filled in with lead and aching broken bones.
I will never forget the day I died, that gust of wind, the way death lied.
The bullet soaring through the air, I couldn’t see for the glare, the glare of the fire that burst ahead the fire that swallowed flesh, tore up the bone it burned both friend and foe.
It caught me and dragged me in, the devil full of sin, I was like a drowning man without the coolness of the waves I was burning as a slave, a slave to the world, their own small puppet to play their plan.
The arms that closed around my chest could only be death’s, Then it all stopped, all the pain just vanished, I was light and free.
But nothing, nothing can ever heal
the memories I still yield.