Purple Heart

Flak smatter
hums like hornets
and the night, almost eradicated,
sings

heavy metal hymns,
Harmageddon immortalised
for a tomorrow
that can not listen.

"So this is what it looks like,"
he thinks,
and draws another breath
through a glowing cigarette.

To go out in other flames,
James Dean style.

Lying down,
watching new stars
zig zag swirl
in an insane display
of beauty.

He closes his eyes
and probes the perimeter
of imagination.

Upwards,
towards roaring bumblebees
and shrieking stingers,
delivering the goods
to every man
woman
child
tonight.

Through occupied air
and missile whistle
he pictures
death and dead
falling alike,
battery acid rain
from a reluctant sky.

"It came to this,"
he mumbles to the stars.
"And with each turn
of holy noble intentions
we rust and fall."

"But my legacy is this:
To be the one
who grabbed no rifle
and shot no man,
no hate to no end."

The cigarette burns out.

He still have minutes.

And the sky
spews stars,
so pretty.