War in Color

Faces less human and more pliable than rubber boots.
Pictures sharper than the shrapnel claiming them
explode mines in my mind, eating out my eyes:
Juicy-red-tomato-glare shining in the sun
is only dimmed by the count of graves, and we won?
Grief! Grief! 10,000 stronger than gravity pulling my heart
from my lungs.
Wailing could not release me from this grief’s grasp.
Fingers loosen as time fades the film away
eroding the endings of my retinas.
War in Color: stone, dead, color.