Wild fire

The product of war, the nature of greed. What we do, becomes what we seek. Unbeknownst, unwilling I became the gun,the bullet streaking through your hair as gentle as air, as smooth as a gentle stream. Call to arms as the machine seeps through the blood stream. Heart beating to a forgotten song as the boy inside dies in your arms. Holding onto the hope as his last breathe forms wings. Years gone, older than I should be as I roam the quite halls of dried tears. With the amber still lit the fire within begins to grow. We become what we do, we become what we seek, we.