I am barely hanging on. There is no hope. There's no inspiration. I'm sitting here alone as is my wont. I can't try- or fly- can't pick up the pieces. There is no hope. There is no inspiration. Maybe I could try to fly . . . just when I do my wings spasm as my body folds .
It became airtight. It was a full melon that my skin became the rind of . . . at first I thought my wings failed me due to a sickness, a faint passing illness . . . but my body developed into a loaded melon of juice, transformed from a little airy fluttering thing, that now hits the round with a splat, and groans with the impact breaking on command to fire . . . the bullet went though the heart, impacting the soldier in the range, shattered . . .
It hit, dead. Smack, with a shatter. Juice seeped from my veins and bled across the green grass, staining it with beautiful red sparkle . . .
I had been a missile of death in the air, disguised as a pretty sparrow, full of air. The war missile is a bloody line of death, racing through the sky . . .
When I come to impact, the juice of its body becomes its true form of human hatred and sickly leers in the night, rising, with envy and scorn through the heated drum-rolls, calls and screams of the dying, as they crawl around the Earth, after the missile of all this has been thrown . . . after the impact.
I was here the missile. How many times in this poor life, do we all become one? Anyone can be a war martyr. Careful, and watch, as Jesus says, not to become a war missile-