DDcrash

The constant threat of rifles and grenades, the foxhole of a bench I sit upon. Intelligence? My sharp and lonesome blade, against the dateless arms of the salon. Those blackened eyes to shade the lust for blood, the paint of war to mask the innocent. More flesh, more flesh, a goosestep and a scud, like shrapnel in my eyes from hair cement. The tremors in my hand, they come and go, draped in disguises, duly named fatigues The weariness from putting on a show, this battle, its profoundness, my intrigue. In times of peace as well as times of war, death to the satinpod and all décor.