I envy those sitting in the zone.
Bullets flying past
huddled up and prone
they may lose all past
places the called home.
But what they have
the only thing I can fathom
to cure me, so, on that behalf
come to my place
and shoot me in the face.
Nothing pretty is to be found
in the places of profound
massacres. Of amassed
suffering, despicable and despised
human evil. To me, only, surpassed, only
by a caretaker disinterested
in those they made sensible.
Nothing poetic is in war
but it has, what I want for me, to, sensibly be over.


© Everything


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