My Poetry. Dangerous acts.

The air is heavy, sharp, and intensely hot;
Survival demands eyes fixed right at your back.
One critical slip, one moment of innocence lost,
And you will not leave this deadly place alive.
Women move now with somber, veiled faces,
Their imposed silence colder than chiselled stone.
Tears cut twin tracks through the dust and the ash—
They grieve their broken world, yet they grieve alone.

Terror shadows and grips every broken street:
Young men ride quickly on rusted-out bikes,
Unsure of a friend or a hidden, lurking foe,
Frantically swerving around deadly spikes.
Distant, deep-throated bombs ignite the dark sky,
Their shuddering echoes haunt the land for miles.
Thick smoke permanently drapes the broken fields,
Where silent, abandoned bodies lie in piles.

Our weary unit waits in a taut, heavy silence,
Each frantic heartbeat loud with impending dread.
A man clings high to shattered, twisted steel,
Then instantly falls—struck down, now simply dead.
Fires violently choke the diminished daylight,
This afflicted land has forgotten the sun.
For years we’ve marched through the endless, grinding night,
Still fighting the shadows, one by one.

Hospitals overflow and spill with the wounded,
Medical supplies are desperately too few to last.
Doctors wear the heavy weight of fresh blood,
Exhausted nurses hurry frantically past.
Bodies are stacked high now for burning,
A waking nightmare without any chance of release.
Children cry with hollow, ancient eyes—
Their childhood innocence completely deceased.

The grinding war for a semblance of freedom lingers on,
But the innocent are always the first to pay.
Armies chase, clash, and relentlessly fall,
While the powerless pawns are cruelly cast away.