MoP, Day 15

dead grass and dry dirt

the sound of gunfire
the spark of flint and flame
twin palms dressed in blood
the white of bone
like a beacon in the dark hotel
bleeding out the jugular is no way to go
a hero’s death, or a coward’s?
a suit of iron
a strip for eyes
limbs ripe for the picking
the wail of death sings across the valley
the young constable shakes
retches into the shrubbery
father, mother, sister, brother
their voices fill his head
and lament their fallen hero
(there’s that word again)
and he cries to know he’ll never be equal in their eyes

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