in the silence of the noisy night
the clock ticking tickathon
the breath ran short, ran out
and in a moment of insensible sense numbing lightlessness
the grenade fell, and the dam broke
and it was blinding light before dawn
the hands went to the shell shocked mouth
words spilled out of splintered shells
and the casualty was that conscious heart
red-bled into the cobwebbed alley
the carpet of the whiskey coloured thread spun round and round
the camouflage served not the wearer
gun slung on the broken bones
and casts and cast in stone mingle
some kind soul went looking for the healing potion
convinced it would bring on utopian stupor
yet the truth
it was clear as day
obvious too, that war was over...no skirmish even
winner takes it all, loser has to fall
