Carcasses strewn across the battlefield like rose petals-
a freshly laid blanket of bright red.

Dogs barking fearfully in the distance,
while commands are barked with a desperation that warns of impending death.

Bags filled with medicines and aid,
like fresh groceries brought for a funeral feast.

Food and water guarded like the precious gold
for which they are killing, and being killed.

Death is not blood flowing from mouths
that should be brimming with laughter.

Death is not a dark blackness replacing the twinkle in the eyes of the youth,
as life slowly creeps out with a ghastly bellow.

Death is not a body twisted out of proportion,
which ought to otherwise be spiralling in a dance of abandon.

Death is not a monstrosity.
Death is an inevitable hegemonic; undertaken by choice for the lack of options.

Death is not an unfathomable pain.
Death is dignified digits printed in artistic fonts with inks that may never know of the blood lost.

Death is not inhumanely gruesome.
Death is an elegant funeral, with graceful tributes-
decorated with the very guns whose echoes they despised
and the very flags whose honour they died protecting.

Death is five mere letters
for the martyrs that sacrificed themselves and achieved salvation.


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