Work Text:
tallying blood types
each blue uniformed soldier
separated solemly by their
injuries and
their way of rejoice
oh till when will the angels come
to collect their patched and sewn forms?
for my own apron
is starting to get stained
staring at the number
of minutes left
wandering far from
the number of stitches done
kneeled down praises
and glass clinks of merry
thanking thy high priestess
how swift the storm rolls in
healed slit wrists
and butterflies flying down
the flailing soldiers'
throats.