wishful

I will ride through the burning streets of this town, in a chariot made of your bones, drawn by your weeping women and children, beneath the battered, crow pecked corpses of my enemies, swinging from the streetlights

I will salt the ground where your homes once stood and stand in blessed isolation on this road where no traffic will ever move again, filling my lungs with the smoke and ashes of all your stolen tomorrows

No – of course I won’t. I’ll sit here in this trench, filling with mud and rain, cowering as the shells burst overhead, and wait to drown.

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