Washed upon the shores of war

Gazing down at the rapid raspberry ripples of ravishing red wine
divinely doused in my dying days of darkness .
Subtly swirling me back to those timidly tender times.
Where I once had a wholesome hand to hold
followed with a sweet soft spoken smile smearing my
worrisome mind over with the contented clutches of comfort.
But those days just like a silvery silken line of smoke eventually had to fade away into my new persistently wretched realms of reality .
Where the only comfort is from the knowledge in knowing that
my heart still boldly beats giving me some sort of relief. But then even
that slowly fades away and next thing I’m back in this bitterly blackened bottle
of belittlement .Persistently passing the dismal dimes of time by consciously crumbling down into my crushed up cage of quivering questions that never prance upon the path of an answer. Among these questions lies my cautious surviving comrades; one lieutenant Jeffrey Combs; the charismatic candle carefully kindling his cynical sense of self . Which was most successfully sparked by humanity’s sickening seed subtly sulking with a gradually growing grasp of greed . And the second being the passionately patient Paul Ramsey who just waits.
Simply waiting for the bashful burnout of this eternal flashing flame that only the tides of time can truly tame.
How we got here is the only clarity we’ve consciously captured . We got here because this wildflower of a world decided to irrationally rip its two halves apart and made those halves gradually grow into the harmful hands of hysteria . Leading us to our current worldly conflict, humanity's favorite ghastly game of war. Where instead of letting logic light their way to purposeless prosperity . They decide to indulge men such as I in the draft, making us fight in a war without a cause or a clear point to it all.
We originally in our group had twenty members but after the first wrathful wave of warriors; only three of us remained, this includes Paul Ramsey , Jeffrey Combs and I .
We’re left with our external selves only slightly slashed but with our solemnly sewn sails of innocence eternally torn and tattered .
As we’re shoved into the trampled trench of trembling troubles, constantly counting down the perpetual passage of the passing days.