Armed arms

Far, behind the sheet of sky,
the air is damp.
There is dust, and slumped eyes,
hands resting on pane.

Guns grunt with pain,
and men do shout,
a little brown is losing to red,
but only the brown that they shall gain.

He went with pen,
blue he filled, blue it brought,
a little piece of metal marked the end,
he knew the story he died with.

Then the dust rose, and eyes slumped,
hands resting on pen,
And far, behind the sheet of sky,
the air got damped.