Outside my window, war

On the street anger has a different name,
every day a darker gradation of crimson
today's anger was a burnt tire
tomorrow's a child wrapped with a flag, like a soldier
ready to defend without arms,
without legs, left at the refugee queues
the rooms he sleeps in tucked with a feather

at homes, hunger hasn't started yet,
it is a side-effect, they will tell us
like the question was in the bullet's belly
like the answer would be in the tears that will follow
they will know hunger when in a short life they will recall
the pouring of lead, snow in mid-summer

I confess I haven't slept for the past three nights
maybe because this will change my sleep patterns
the inability to ignore what the day brings, full of sunshine and sight
the night comes with its cover, so would my
angry fear, too shamed to confess that at this age
I still shiver at the smell of gas, regardless of less toxic masks

when we shiver we remember our
anger, crimson to purple,
red to green, this is noble- dulce et decorum est
sit back and then collect, like arms- these side-effects
this is war, it knows nobody
yet it reaps what it can along the way.