Under a Tattered Sky
(c) 2009 M. Vijars
Sometimes in the stillness you hear a zing
before the first barkings of the
dogs of war unleashed in
a cacophony of movement,
mayhem, noise and destruction –
and the Green Machine does it's work
by – the – numbers
through the fiery phlegm of coughing AKs
responding with crisp, chaotic, targeted piercings from M16s.
Death zinging it's tune to a staccato thrum
while powdery leaf fragments float delicately on the air.
Only after a melee, comes the
realisation of the
intimate seductiveness of Death's kiss while
shuddering and shaking fully aware that
Death was jilted (this time)
here –
in the thick
spongy undergrowth,
dank and foul.
Adrenalin’s aftermath leaves you sensing, smelling and quaffing
Life’s brevity – not realising
in some away time-yet-to-come an
unrelated sound, sight or smell
will bring back all you thought you left behind –
and only then do you really break down.
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