the last war

i.
warpaint streaks faces, fingers
dipped in mud, caking at the surface.
the ground drinks in blood greedily,
hungrily. it wants more.
we oblige.

ii.
only the dead are hungry. their bodies
thirst for more, desiccated skin
hoping for a second chance. they feed
on the elixir of life,
the miasma masked by eau de vie.

iii.
death eats at bodies gradually:
first, the edges, the definition —
softened bluntly, lines blurred.
next, the shadows, watercolor skin
fading into blood and bone.
time slows down, clocks ticking until
finally, they turn into dust.