The victims of war are stone statues

lined up against the wall.

One of them turns around and raises his trembling hands.

The left is missing a finger.

His eyes are shut but his mouth opens, revealing pitch black eternity.

“Please,” He says “What difference does it make?”

There is a distant reply and I recognize the person holding the weapon.

He dissolves into feverish voices in the wind, carrying the wispy hiss that echos and shatters.

I join the parade and let the wall become my barricade and the sky, my ceiling.

They coalesce and turn into meaningless white.