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.