Sonnet to The End

With trepid tiptoed steps you march through hell’s
Dementia; corrupted, creviced bloodstained woods,
Dive for shelter ‘mongst shady captors’ hoods;
Torn stumps, blighted by cascading shells.
Precious blood like stolen stealth from veins;
Like blood-drenched roses, petalless and dark;
Trickles down craters, runs in rivers to mark
Hell’s gates, over which the sordid devil reins.
As you knock on death’s dark and dingy door,
Battered, blinded, dumbly deaf, and mute,
Sucked in by dreams, take your rifle and shoot
The sweet white angels to die on the floor.
But you are they, now your life is pending,
Feel a pulse, perhaps? But no, I’m ending.