Clad in a suit of
Grey-green
An arm, a leg
Stiff, of no use
Or was it because
They were
made of plastic

Emerge onto the battlefield
A hundred together
Poised to shoot
Every shot emanating power
A lethal conundrum
Or were these bullets
made of plastic

The excitement
Infectious — exhausting — resentment
Adrenaline coursing
Unrestricted on the battlefield
Or was it confined
To a playbox
made of plastic

As the bullets sped
Through the air
As they pierced through him
He fell — perished?
Was it the dead end
Or was this

Just a game?

The blood is warm
The tears are salty
The pain hurts
The cries are loud
Wonder if it’s a ruse to rack
Hope it isn’t the disparate reality
Hope we know that it’s time to stop