Dream settings. Sweet endings. Happy trees. Fluffy clouds. Perfect day to live. Great day to touch. Soak. Smoke. Laugh. Action. Blood. Water. Dirt. There’s always another shooting. More prayers and indignation. To be had. No privacy. No smooth touch. Just rushing metal instruments. Through bone and tendon. flailing limbs. Heart wrenching screams. These things are real. We love and die through them. Blood soaked. Memories flood. Through the pain of shrapnel and bullets. Fresh flesh fermenting in the sun. Mounds of limbs. Staring. Baking. We die for this right? What would it take? For Like you and your children take up arms. To stand against tyranny. Knowing you’ll die. That there is no ultimatum greater than laying your life down. Are we there yet? Not quite. People talk big but do nothing. We ain’t giving up what comfort we have. If they can do our dirty work then so be it. How far removed are we from the battle field? We get the letters. We are the carnage.

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