A Weapon of War
He finds himself among the dead,
the moving parts
of armored columns,
His hands are guns
his eyes are guns
His mind a weapon he points.
Drink raw vodka,
laugh and joke with the dead,
for they all saw the beast,
the clanking grinding machine
they marched away to war inside it
they know it, it speaks to them
behind their closed eyes.
Courage comrades, steady,
we are the harvesting of death.
We have weaponized the dead,
hammered swords from shears,
for the Motherland.
He staggers away from himself,
smoke still fuming from the muzzle
of his hot mouth
while other’s step carefully over
his broken cadaver.
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