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Dying in Third Person

Photo ©️Orion Foote

Dying in Third Person

He doubles as despatch rider.
blazing in with grim omens
squirming inside satchel’s womb.
2B pencil droppings – those faded
by the furore of fiery light,
mix with those of a darker ilk;
not for the eyes of another.

When the chosen appear above
echoes of fire & morning bells,
he reaches for sidearm & scissors;
spares no expense of thought
for the fallen, who always return
at the dawn’s last post.

Isn’t it bloody, my boy
When streetlights glow somber
beneath a broad light of day.
When sleep cycles twitch
like leaves before slow paralysis.
Isn’t it bloody, my boy
when words huddle in trenches
that heave under a pasting at dawn.

On changing gear, he curses at HQ.
Where Generals sip tea – bloated
on Belgian slice; their diverging
word threads propose
all in good time – as time itself explodes.

©️Orion Foote

Published by mawherablue

Teller of tall tales....

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