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.