Mud

Added 23 June 2003

All the feel of an operating room,
but the mud tells me it isn't.
Though there is the same smell of blood
here it flows free by hate,
flows into pools that form
a bath for some to rejoice in,
others to drown in.

This place has no constant time.
One moment a lifetime.
One lifetime a moment.
And many complete ends.
Each in it's own horrific space.
Those are the constants;
the horror and the here.
Even the cries are transient,
as voices die others give rise
to whole new pains.

One other thing remains . . .
. . . the bloody mud.
It can seal a wound,
or infect it.
Shield your eyes,
or blind
Be something to focus on,
or something to blur the world.

In war, there is always the mud.
Thrown.
Blown up.
Moved.
Conquered.
Lost.
Oozing.
Difficult to swallow.

Written 9, 19 September 2000