Death’s Shell Game

Man had survived
Centuries of evolvement-suggested security.

Today,
Much of Man longs for its mother.

Today,

The clock is running slow,

Slower,
Stopping,
Begging.

Such hopeful beginnings.
Such bestial endings.

Over-used protection bears residual,
Air too precious to ration,

Desert temperatures running rampant
Making worthless ice packs and ibuprofen.

Skittering front-line exhaustion,
Like zig zagging sand pipers,
Void of PPEs,

Wary of cough and sneeze encroachment

Makes missions reliant on tenacity beyond the norm.

Such is…

This hide and seek shell game of death,

Today’s survival but for today.
Anticipates months of sandstorm-like changes,
Leaving but fever baked flotsam,
Mixed bodies of friend and foe,
Their casualty-charge piled high,

Making but stumbling of boots
Across bodies on ice.

Oh, the quiet…

The involuntary resolve,

Just for a moment,

Or two,
Just until the peaks flatten.

Not much to ask.

Not much if leadership is listening

To the frontline sufferings.

Really listening.

Carpe diem, Washington.