Work Text:
in the days before the war had even begun,
when unknown empty promises had been made
of a future of perfect harmony.
the flag of that future, of our future,
had been pinned to your jacket of paper and crayon,
of promises made to be broken, of improper parenting.
the colours of revolution so dark and contrasting
against the beautiful bright blue of your suit.
with a gentle hand to fragile seams,
vibrant orange hairs were brushed from your shirt,
a confident general neatening his soldier
rather than his son.
the warm embrace of a friend, of a sister,
of a woman who cared like a mother.
the nervous twitch of an ear
as words of encouragement die on the battlefield
and are screamed as a declaration of war.
the unending fight just beginning
as arrows pierce soft skin and handcrafted uniforms,
and screams of our future turn to screams of our pain.
so when a single black feather
fell from the air into your path,
you took no precautions before running to its source
desperate for the answers not even he could provide.
you fell at the feet of fate's bloodied sword,
and you begged for more time
with the man that had no more promises to make,
and you listened in the hope to hear his final strums.