Souvenirs

I walked over a heap of bodies
Tucked away.
I felt the blood clots dissolve
As it rained, again.
I turned back,
To count the corpses many-
The fresh fragrance of gun powder
Made me lose count,
And I started all over again.

My eyes strayed to a piece of metal,
Trapped beneath the pile,
A loaded magazine, I cried!
Sneaked it out, and pressed it safe
Into my jacket new.
A prized piece, for my collection.

I walked over a heap of bodies,
Newly piled up.
I swooped in before others,
And found a finger hanging loose,
As though waiting to be taken away.
I acceded,
And walked away
With a piece of someone.

I heard the journalists cry over exclusive rights,
And I heard the cries of anguish too,
But distinguish one from the other,
I could not.
My eyes searched out disaster
And I never had to be disappointed.

As night began to dawn,
I walked back home,
With my prized new possessions-

Waterlogged bombs.
Loaded magazine.
Guns and rifles, empty.
Pieces of flesh, once alive.
Ear shattering cries.
Memories of someone's fear.
Orphaned humanity.
Snippets of bravery.

And as I went to bed,
I searched for my soul,
And found it missing.

I rummaged through my souvenirs anew,
But, in vain.
And, I ran out into the open
Searching for my soul,
Lost.