In Wilfred Owen's Dulce et Decorum est, there were a couple line that I found particularly haunting. Owen writes that, "Behind the wagon that we flung him in,/And watch the white eyes writing in his face,/His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin," about a man who could not get his gas mask on in time and died because of the gas released on them. (18-20) The description alone is enough to leave me a bit haunted by a memory that was not mine. Do you feel the same way about this section of this poem?
Gif: http://untethered.textplus.com/post/77083070561/5-overreactions-to-common-cell-phone
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