Daily Battle of Civil Strife

Prostrate after the daily battle
on the field of civil strife
in the trenches, on the hilltop
bullets flying shy of insult
bodies soft like yours and mine
shielded, cut and catapulted
every act too small to find
reason in the starry fabric
shaken, spread above our heads
falling slowly like a sheet
falling ’til the air is all out
pulled side to side, tight
alive and dead across the bed
eyes closed to rest and wonder
each one in a silent row —
Was I or not a survivor?
Maybe slain, perhaps injured
leg lost or blood spilled
swords crossed like cries for help
uniforms torn, flags abandoned
singed with anger and confusion
all alone and all united
bayonet to bayonet stung
with impossibility of hiding
with ambiguity of winning
smells of death filling life
not at all peaceful but still
lying after the daily battle
on the fields of civil strife.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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