rusty palate muttering gutteral phrases wailing against a rail of despair tangled in the vines of modern times i arose to the din of combat raising her head to get closer to god without realizing that the reverse of this non-palindrome is true she stumbled to regain her former self limply bestowing friendly fire composure lost somewhere between breaths which accelerate rapidly to the pangs of a frightened drummer it must be your first war and though you've been lacerated from the inside by metaphorical shrapnel i witness the screams you utter frantically now lacking the ability to save you from the onslaught