The Traitor Will Bleed
Years on the rack.
Stretched out and winding
Cogs and broken pieces
Shrapnel.
While I
Box upon box.
The unburied dead. The hatchet.
Littering my surroundings
The casings of a former life
The scorched earth. The salt.
The endless devastation.
While you
Small town to small town.
A view of the sea.
Several hundred miles from
The battlefront.
In your armour made of paper
And your cogs
And your litterings
Of endless vast rubbish.
A gust of wind so strong
It could send your flat and weightless
Two dimensional sense of self
Flying. Splintering.
Lost.
I am recovered
Piling away
Myself with the remnants.
Box upon box.
The traitor will bleed.
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