The world is a changing place,
A changing surface.
Mans hand has played so many roles in this.
The decimation of land and crops.
A thousand faceless soldiers marching forth to the orchestrated War.
A thousand instruments of battle.
Played like a hand of cards,
A gamble.
A chance.
It is this that appeals to the madmen at the head of the machine,
I think.
Steps to the beat of drums,
Across charred lands they march.
Rows of columns await those that might just survive,
To walk amongst and receive their medals.

A comrade catches the eye of his brother as they charge across broken earth.
Armour weighs,
It slows,
But it is the very thing that might just save one.
Staring grimly ahead.
The enemy has always seemed lesser;
An ant to be crushed.
Not so when faced in their masses.