aftermath

after the battle
as the copper sweet tang
of blood lingers
at the back of the throat
and as the blank eyes of the living
see nothing but the
unsettled stares of the fallen
and as color has been leeched
from the field
leaving the brown sky and the grey grass
the earth groaning beneath
a subliminal counterpoint to
the wails and screams of those
not quite finished
with the business of pain

far away
in two separate climate controlled rooms
complete with air conditioning
and the white noise of computers humming
the leaders sit alone with their coffee
to read the reports
couched in sterile numbers without faces
before making the decision
whether it’s time for it to end

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