Though the crimson shall become green, it shall not go.

It will be unnatural, but they don't care.

I told them that I disagreed, that they should let these things regenerate on their own. There is no place for me here, it disturbs me greatly.

Yet here I must stand, because I am special.

But not special enough.

Coughing wind snaps the brittle grass, strewing it along miles of brown, dying, dead. No clouds protect the sky from the shame, instead forcing blue eyes upon painful, undeniable truth.

They don't like the truth. I am here to hide the truth.

Each step I take is green, the charred blood beneath my toes crumbling with the spread of new life.

I wince because I can feel them still. Though the crimson becomes green, it is not gone.

I cannot see the end. Perhaps there is no end. I certainly cannot feel an end.

Yet, I'm creating the end.

No, they say, you are creating a beginning.

What a beginning it is, to shroud heroics.

Trees begin to breathe anew, leaves sprouting from crippled buds. Bark comes once more to shield soft, inner bellies riddled with bullet holes.

Tidal waves of green wash over the landscape, beyond my vision, to their delight.

Always it was beautiful to me, the green, the growth. But now it is sickness, the gentle hue of disease that raises decoys for all to see, hiding in plain sight the horror of horrors, made invisible by those who fear writers of history.

But perhaps there shall be a stain still.

Perhaps I can be the one to make it.

Though the crimson becomes green, it is not gone.

The flowers stretch towards the heavens, heads lifting from a deep sleep. Stems pulsating with green, that green, that is connected to this earth. But those heads are colourless yet, held in my eyes as potential saviours.

They glare then, as they bloom, heads awash in red, challenging the sky.

Challenging them.

Miles upon miles become a sign, my sign. An army of flowers as my soldiers, faces hot with anger.

Click, click. I can hear it behind me. I close my eyes with my work complete.

I smile before I hit the green and red, mossy fingers curling to comfort me and take me with them.

Though the crimson has become green, it has not gone.