Tommy Witoshynsky//WPB// @itsalwaysmybirthday
The sun that rose each morning and disappeared all too soon each evening proved to be just a shallow look-alike of the one that warmed our home towns. The placebo effect of it's gleaming rays no longer offered the warmth for which we pleaded. Many moons ago the whiskey flowed aplenty, keeping our bellies warm and our spirits high, blurring out the horizon and painting pictures of false hope before us.
But our flasks have long since run dry, and the unforgiving winds howl through our hollow bones, stripping away the last bits of livelihood we held onto. With every labored step our knees creak like cemetery gates, and one by one the men realize that all hopes of finding our way back to civilization are foolish and deluded.
A fortnight ago our company came to realize our captain had led us to Death's door, but not one of us holds in our hearts the strength to rebel, or the slightest clue how to lead us home.
Every few hours, it seems, our ranks continue to dwindle, as these brave souls drop to their knees with blank faces and indifferent minds, and their hearts cease to beat. We bother not even to glance their way, and shed no tears for our fallen brothers; for all of us are dead, those lucky few have simply learned to let go.