When It Comes To World's End

When it comes to world's end,
I walk the line.

In all and all,

gas over winter and Winter over nuke,
blues over pop, drowning over electronica,
shelling over vaporization (again) ,
fragments in flesh over gas,
door to door kick ins
over breach.  And
target practice
over live rounds.

Five hundred pound packed  steel cans
of cement.  Phosphorous and chlorine.

Fields of wire and actual mines capable
of upending a tank and quite capable
of relieving you of your limbs.
Who would wish that on a taste for flame.

Come again? So there was this one day.

Seven concussions in.  I hate everything.

Broken noses and

I get tired of i c io knknen  ne nea a . I get
tired of fixing things.  It is exhausting.

The dream faded a long time ago.
That soup fed for years, we all know it.
It's gorgeous.

Golden.