The fallen soldiers used to be Cobras and now they're beer cans. The cans were covered in butter gone rancid. The Cobras are long gone and even their parents have forgotten they were ever here. Plastic melted thumbs popped off lying to rot in your backyard. They had such dreams of making the world what they wanted. And now, they are buried in graves unmarked. They had their war. I can understand. At least theirs was with guns and bombs and rockets and fire. They didn't have hearts in their plastic chests. And their heads didn't say one thing that they couldn't reconcile with the rest. They were made to die, just like us, but they lived for moments ended by roman candle and M80 and cherry bomb. Flash crash bang boom. Not slow long drawn out. Their swivel arm battle grip plastic weapons would be no match for the war between head and heart. They'd melt as sure as I do. We'd march into battle, no match for the forces amassed against us, our weak points obvious for all to see. You can try as hard as you want but in the long run, nobody really gives a fuck when they're taking a piss on your unmarked grave.

Photo - S
Words - S