drop to feet,
fingers run through hair,
quiet cries in bloody fog.
Survivor’s luck is argued
on the heads of pins—
to surrender fate so uneasily;
to kiss Spring love goodbye,
and then survive.
Yet be a bit more dead each night,
in duty to each bolt they’ve locked,
recalling every round they’ve sent
to flip the fate their foes concoct.
sweep the fields.
Parse and box each bloody part;
note each noble sacrifice
in reports of useful lessons learned.
recoiling from their trigger dreams,
fall many unboxed dead
yet, still alive.
G W Sisk