91: attack; sublime

A thousand tiny fireworks
scatter beautifully, like little sprouts
of hate and ambiguity.
The dots below stare up above,
at those hovering crafts of time itself
which decides their fate right then and there -
Godless gods of judgment make their play
and fly away; leave bodies for prey.

At home, they sit and reminisce
of fights never fought, games of pretend.
Young eyes glued to screens of combat zones...

Click - click - click.
Here comes the wound.