You find yourself,
wrapped in the comfort of your sheets,
belly stuffed with roast beef,
string beans and baked potato.
A smile plays on your lips
as you glide into hushed dreams,
the gentle sounds of a false ocean
breaking against your ear drums.

Thousands of miles away,

his lip caves;

her eye is splattered over the ground
before her, blood seeping into the dirt;

bruises speckle his body;

her face is melting,
blisters cracking along
her throat.

A mother's eyes frown
as they fall upon an empty
bed, sheets knotted
and stained with blood.
She collapses onto the
makeshift mattress, fingers
tangling themselves in
the fragments of warmth
still lingering in his pillows;

"We don't have any children.
We only have combatants."
Flimsy muscles strain to
support firearms. A child,
barely ten, struggles
to keep formation, clumsy
knees cracking against
hot mud a his commander
presses his teeth to the Earth;

"God sent spirits to communicate
this mission," he says,
as his ashen palms slide
up the ragged linen frock,
two sizes too small, barely
covering her brittle thighs.
Silent tears stream along
her dust-stained cheeks;

A mother falls to her knees.
Her son hovers above her,
quivering thumbs steady
the machete against her jugular.
He tries not to cry,
but can feel his throat
beginning to crack.

They find themselves
wrapped in the comfort of numbers,
bellies empty and churning.
Fear slithers over their faces
as they stumble into rushed dreams,
the resonance of gun shots
exploding against their ear drums.