I can hear the firing squad coming

Give me an armistice,
put a red cross around my neck,
lock me down in the cellar,
until the shelling begins again.

A pistol in one hand.
A machine gun in the other.

I dance on my veins
as I block the blood from the tower,

they say a solider never leaves the war ground,
not truly anyway.

A part of their mind attaches to the bullet they shot over no mans land,
then gone
forever.

My bullet is a lighter
and my poppy is made of a knife.
The red dye bleeds down into the shower
while a pill tore apart my stomach.