Casualty of War

The stench of gasoline and gore permeated the encampment. I am a prisoner of war And I’m held in a stinking tent that I share with a gun toting taliban soldier. His black eyes staring intently and gloating as though I were a trophy prize whose head would soon hang on a stick for all his turbaned insurgents to pelt with stones and broken bricks. I expect his malevolent Nature to vent with certainty which translates: it’s curtains for me!