The last of the falling dust cascaded to the ground.

Shrieks and screams repeated in my ears.
An outsider would claim it an echo,
I knew it to be the endless line of human torture
As each new bomb took it’s place among the debris,
Tearing apart already torn individuals,
Whose badges had long ago lost their shine,
And whose hearts had learned to distinguish.

Victory could never belong within a sentence.
Speaking of war; where every writer has it wrong.

The crude outline of a man lay nearest me,
Lacking limbs or a voice to moan his pain.
His sightless eyes turned skyward,
Reflecting the fiery ball of a sun that hung above.
I followed his empty gaze, momentarily blinded,
The sun had betrayed us all.
Illuminating these harsh lands as though in happiness,
Where elsewhere children skipped in ecstasy
And the world had blinded us with words of honor.
What did any of it matter now?

The whoosh of another bomb scattered my consciousness.
Blood streaming away from my weakening body,

And a face swam in the hazy light above my head.
My last words left tongue tip in a harsh whisper,
Scratching my throat like sandpaper at the conviction.
“The sun’s fault.”

I never heard his response to my truth telling words.
But he, in fact, knew better than I.
And had my heart pounded but once more
My ringing ears may have heard
Him name the enemy as among us all.