fatigues

Watching me while I walked back
There was only one
Then, turning around
I take a step back and
The thousand guns of empire
Go off
They all ask the same thing
Why you scared.
The patriots of the monsoons
Have dug trenches
And wait in arms
They would rather
The blood stained their shirts
But woe be to passion when
It’s colour is overpowered by
The slime from mud slinging