Bunkered

My breaths are short. My hands, they will not still.

The winds, they do not cease to blow

my hair into my face and down my throat.

The skies are nothing but a vengeful storm,

and all that I can do is close my eyes.

My heart is stripped of all that it once was,

and though it now is made of molten rock,

a heart alone has never been this cold.

But I am not the one to blame for this.

Inhaling gulps of air that reek of pain,

I slump and sit upon the ground and stare

at pieces of my life that now are charred.

There is nowhere for me to go from here.

The tears, they fall and hit the dirt below,

and anger threatens to take hold,

yet satisfying as revenge would be,

I cannot find a way to make them pay.

I cannot even find a way to speak.

I hear the frightened sounds of more like me

and see the smoke that chokes out all things pure.

The sounds of shots ring out, and now I know—

they have returned to tear apart the rest.

Our hope now gone, replaced with blood, we wait

for lead to fly and add us to the sum.