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,
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.