Sons of Adam

Son’s of Adam

The sun rose high on a field of death and dying. Lives relieved from men like wheat shocked from its stem. Bodies and body parts, dyed in crimson, laid scattered carelessly. Some had lost arms, some legs, but all hope. The lucky ones heads had been sheared off, like ripe corn off the stock. The suffering envied their lifeless brethren, for hell was surely respite. Groans of pain and cries of agony were uttered among the wounded on their final minutes on Earth. Many sobbed for mother, like a young child crying for their maternal milk. Some were yet to know manhood, but died as men, callused by pains of war.

A tall man cloaked in black death came around, stepping on and over bodies, releasing the wounded to Valhalla with the end of his bayonet, like Longinus’ lance into the side of one broken on the tree. Like some kind of morbid physician of death, he diagnosed pain and prescribed death. But the suffering saw him not as the Reaper with his cruel scythe, but as Phlegyas with ferry pike in hand, guiding them passage cross the river Styx. Many reached out to him for solace; for when pain is unbearable, there is paradise in death.
But when they finally released their last sigh of sorrow, a look of terror was frozen into their face. These ghosts of war would be forgotten, returned to the dust from which they came. These sons of Adam, victims of the mandatory suicide.