Inconspicuous paper,
deceive and demand–
a boy brings in the mail
to find a life in green,
dark script bares
far darker words–
what are my options
as the ink dries on his fingers,
like blood run down,
or casings raining black against the dawn.
Fields in the words
hold bodies broken,
but in the silent flight,
the flickering light–
a slower demise of
loneliness and stripes
surrounded yet
by wagging fingers; scathing scowls.
The smell of ashes
does not abate in breathing–
burn the scraps away
but your dearest Uncle has to say
you still have got to show.