War Hero

The trust evaporates into smoke

as olive branches are burned for firewood—

it’s all they are good for now,

and besides, it’s getting cold.

As the smoke hits the stratosphere,

a man starts to panic.

Everyone wants to murder him.

The paranoia is so bad,

his left and right hands

start fighting to the death.

He plucks off all of his fingers

like ripe, tender cucumbers

save the middle one on his right hand.

He can’t use a keyboard anymore

but he has won.

Newly energized

by his first taste of victory,

he goes after all of his enemies;

this time starting with his toes,

working up to his abdomen.

His beating heart is innocent,

but its world is war-torn.

All of the arteries and veins

lead to desert sand now.

Still, it faithfully and persistently

beats into oblivion.

Despite the pain,

he is doing well

until his tears betray him,

so he gouges his eyes out.

Laying down, panting,

barely an arm and a head,

he mulls over what he has done

and realizes all of the evil

was in his mind.

He has died,

but his one unadulterated arm

must have been worth it.