Hundreds of slices
Dress your abdomen;
The pain of a thousand wars.
Tiny glittering drops
Decorate your forehead.

Your breathing
Creates a pattern
Of swirling smoke in the mist.
The grey debris of battle
Coats your tongue
Like a long forgotten lanuguage
Fluently flowing from your throat.

Coughing up your gut;
A silver pearl slides out your mouth
And covers you in sublime misery
While you cocoon yourself,
Waiting for your demise.