we die, but I was sure
the smoke would kill
us, and if not blackened, bloody
lungs of a common elitist
illness.
We're slowly losing our
minds, and the suffering
will incessantly leave
us, wanting demise, recovering our
brothers' remnants from the hopper’s
crevices.
The best sleep of
our lives, on the perturbed
soil of land mines, divided
we die, but surely the
mosquitoes won't starve
tonight.
We ascend by the
tens, but the war is
not dead, whose spoils are
spoiled, only Cerberus
fed.
Death to martyr death, each
of our cries are the same
scream, digging canals with
silver-like spoons, as if to
channel the Red Sea.
Two more generations lost
in a drunken haze, remediating
our losses by signing their names, the
deep pocketed, cozied up by
Ceres’ flames.
Those of us who escape their
spoons are left to play
their wicked games.
