War.

 
Nothing you do will affect me,

Your soul slips of my skin like blood

And gore drips languidly from a shield.

No essence, no

Love can infiltrate me.



I am fresh from the battle.

As hairless as a virgin but as stained as a whore,

The upper percentile of your market.

My tears only seem green to you,

With your

Fingers in the pocket; pinching every penny.



I have fought many,

Men, women, all ages.

I know the tastes of their blood

And I know

Just where to cut them.

I know which spoils to leech from their corpses;

What to harvest and what to let

Decompose.



Have you even been to battle?

The ubiquitous sweat that envelops you,

The flurry of unique organs

Amongst a sea of blank faces.

There is no identity here, you see -

Only productivity,

Only cold air branding bare flesh,

The warm tang of spit,

The feel of nostalgia in my bended knee…



Maybe one day you’ll battle,

If you have not already.

Maybe one day I’ll battle you.