ants and sugar

white walls welcome me to sleep in a room I'm yet to make my own. I dream of Gaza under the weight of someone's cat. the skies change in flashing greys, static between telegraph poles. soldiers run amok like ants over spilt sugar in the pantry. I watch them scramble to shoot children in the street, at school, what might once have been a playground. some dash to hide behind crumbling corners of wall as though the blood won't stain unless they're caught. when I catch them they protest, claiming accident or misfire, sulking off like school-kids called out for detention.

the kids hiding in the diner want to go out to pet echidnas in the carpark. their parents won't let them risk getting shot. they play ordinary times and chess in a burning shell of childhood as I've known it. I spy them through a frame without a window. the bombs raise hell somewhere else, reduced to little more than ambience to shake the pawns on the board. the kids don't flinch or look beyond the game.

chasing after the soldiers I stir to realise they are children too. they fidget with buttons on their guns and uniforms, sing crude songs through streams of blood. I follow them in and out of the smoking remains of hospitals they've bombed, skipping and laughing, school kids through the mall. another ordinary day of play around the grave of human conscience. despite my disgust I can't tell if I'm against them. regardless I am safe at their side to witness the terror. their weapons never point my way.