There were times I was drugged and injured, fleeing the scene. I felt most myself then. Shooting from corners and containers; aim more precise than when I had no venom running through my veins - More precise when there was something to fight for. I am at rest now, barely resting.
(...)
Over by the hills, in a field far stretched, a block of cotton standing tall employs nil visibility. Running from the faction I collapse. The blood off the palm of my hand stains in passing. The aching of my wounds is quelled as I take a breath, fixing my gun with a glock switch.
It is barely morning, and humidity saturates my chest with sweat. I struggle to remain lucid. Everything spins, but I listen to gather my wits; concentrating on any indication that they've become mobile. At the slightest crackle, I turn the corner and lay out bullet after bullet.
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Author:
coracaodacripta (
Offline) - Published: July 13th, 2024 11:00
- Comment from author about the poem: The fight for democracy.
- Category: Letter
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments1
The star strangled banner.
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