In times past:
Organic bludgeons,
Bloodied subordinates,
Heat for solid, wide hips.
The race for the sooty tern’s egg
and metal bent into grotesque shapes.
Modern war machines:
Subtle body language,
Bloodied subordinates,
Threats neatly formed with melted plastic.
Thousands of autonomous dies
pressing out red flecks of alloy.
In those last slipping seconds:
Saturated lungs
Frantic hands
The wails of those you’ve drawn close (if any).
Whitewashed walls that warp and fade
that are perhaps brighter than when you arrived.