Tears forge a path through the dirt on his face,
Cut through the war paint and tell us a tale
Of a little boy in red cowboy boots, brandishing plastic guns,
But this machine is not plastic.
It is metallic and cold. It freezes in his palms,
And it is hard to let go of it all.
His horizon is cardboard, leaning against a flat sky.
Red roses bloom from his shattered chest,
And a sound like fireworks in the distance.
People don't understand, this thing called war...
It's just a dance, and he has fallen out of step.
Though desperate hands cling to him, he cannot feel.
All he hears are footsteps, and he doesn't know,
It's his heart, still trying.
And it is hard to let go of it all.
Then, as suddenly as life can end,
The dance is done.
His eyes are left staring at the blue-bowl sky,
But the part that matters has spun away,
And the stage lights fade to black.