Comrade

"My comrade! Your eyes!"

Blood oozing from your abdomen 

like inkblots from a rough wordsmith,

snaking towards the scrubs 

of wearing wicked weaponry 

held seductively by more 

the chants and infantry

of patriotism than the vermillion

fingers crossed in a bombarding

stance of sedated stroke, 

Lo! suddenly your glance 

reflecting the saffron

of the setting sphere suffusing 

in my heart, with alas!

winter's wretching white eyes,

and limbs losing the lethal grip,

ceasing to move, falling in

the battlefield of green,

disrupting the commotion

of 24 soldiers' cavalcade,

wheeling the procession

of navy-blue nightshade, 

made me shout -

"My comrade! Rise!

This is no place to sleep,

Take cover! 

Allow me to pick you up

for safer shelter.

You're not suitable for martyrdom"

A faint crooked painting 

on your mouth

was the reply, causing

my nerves' immediate heightening,

for your eyes then silent, resembling 

a quiet unleash

of freedom for freedom by freedom,

was all the proof

I needed of peace.