Wartime.

Watching is the hardest part, at war.
As missiles puncture the dawn driven sky,
Like a patchwork quilt slowly dismembered,
Soldiers scatter like ants in a rainstorm.
Which they are.

Seeing is believing, at war.
As the gravel ground ignites in foreboding flashes,
It is subtly reminiscent of the 4th of July,
Like an explosive show of deadly fireworks.
Which it is.

The eyes are a curse, at war.
As the tentative tents burst into flame,
Like a high school bonfire,
Flaming like lost adolescence and innocence,
Which is already forgotten.

Being blind is a blessing, at war.
As blood spatters across the grass
Like a forgotten wine spill at a dinner party,
Not cleaned up till everyone is gone,
Which they will be.

Those accursed ovals,
Windows to the soul,
Betraying light seekers,
Thwarting corneas,
Star gazers to horrors,
The eyes are no friend,
In wartime.