Quilt of bullets

A quilt of pure material,
Home stiches the next day,
It embroid the emotions, embroiled with a harsh reality.

The night defines the fireworks.
Lines and rows. Laces. Tin hat. Toy soldier.
The hun, rabied dogs and panzas,
Young unbroken voices pierce the dwindling night.

"It's a long way to Tipperarey",
It is not a long way to the endris night,
I hang in Ethiops ear, hoping the digger I deep the more sanity I gain and the deeper I dig the longer my life.

Fox hole, I lie like a fox. I burrow and I evade the abominations. The effluvium corrupts, dead. Dead?

Screams from authority " You bastard, get up" "I'll kill you myself you fucker."
But still no reaction, I had dug deep.

A quilt of pure material, young men's blood stained linen,
War stiches the history we never learn.
It embroids and connects the youngsters and thier stolen youth.
It stiches broken fflesh and lost dreams.