Take Home Trophy

Into the night they come
these purveyors
bedecked in Kevlar,
mortar, and silent
munitions

They hang their hats on
our sadly stooped heads
smiling inanely,

as if expecting the eyes
to greet theirs
a conciliatory gesture
announcing consent

Yet our gaze conveys
nothing.
How can we do more
then stand, when our limbs are so many
distended fragments, fingers swinging on clear
milky hinges?

We cannot even signal defiance
or exclaim
a deluge of banalities

No air swells our beings
It has been displaced
we are vacuous, vacant sacks
hung precariously from rusty blood-soaked,
iron hooks

no release
nor unabated cries

Our bodies stiff, apoplectic
The epidermal tissue
lays pieced together with
children’s glue

The fluids have
congealed
heavy
weighted pylons
No more human

A mass distortion
to be displayed
in glass cases and
over fireplaces

where holiday wreaths
are hung
Christmas Carols are sung
and the adoring faces of
family smile, carefree
and full of love