Collateral damage

I creep over half-dead civilians bleeding dry,
cringe at every delusion of a shadow moving
over this putrid soil, befouled by the moribund’s vomit.
I screw the last worthless dream out of my heart
and fill it with a sense of mortal agony
that surrounds me like the bullets flying past my head:
slug whizz, slug whizz, slug whizz.

Someone pops a cork and red wine is raining down on all of us
except for the little girl hidden in the corner –
but she’s too busy screaming and sinking to the ground anyway.
May god forgive me for this stray bullet I hear a soldier pray
before he takes up his gun again and deliberately shoots down the next
terrorist who surely had hidden a bomb amidst the flowers for his wife.

I wish I could truckle past the perishing husband towards the girl’s corner
and lay one of the white roses in her hand
but already the thought is left behind in a decaying mind
and we both watch the scene from outside.

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