Armies in the Sand.

My bullet proof chest, hit
the earth with a skin tearing
pull. I was down.
I was sticky with dirt,
and hurt.
But still alert.
My voice failed me, when
my hands called for you.
Out stretched and
swollen at the joints,
I tried so hard to point at
the army of stream lined dead
faced soldiers in formation, marching
in fierce and deafening
unison towards me, and
you, and the shallow
grave we lay in.
Curled up, like martyred
children. Innocence hidden
only by sunlight. Highlighted
only by shadows that
had fled at the first scent of defeat.
You held my hand,
and we prayed to the sand,
for the winds to come.
A sand storm.
It came.
But not for us.
Not to save our beaten
bodies from the fists
or the hooded darkness on it’s way.
It came, and filled our lungs with
a death more painful than
blood and years of tears.
Mercy.
Was my last thought,
with my eyes fixed on your muddied
face. I choose to die, here, now
with your hand in mine,
in this, or resting place.