Silence

Fingers tightly gripping the pistol’s handle
one finger on the trigger,
inside the barbed whirlwind of nerves
tighten the gut and cause short breaths
as the beads of sweat pour down the forehead.

Hunkered behind the ruins of a old warehouse
out in the middle of a woods with dying trees,
he sits and counts his remaining bullets,
six left and five enemy still living,
can’t afford a mistake,
can’t risk getting ambushed,
survival is the frail second of existence
where a single shot could end his life.

Ages he has fought in these rough thorn thickets
so many dead his mind can’t count any longer,
but there is no such thing as surrender
only to murder or be a victim.

Footsteps heard stepping on a tree branch,
his heart pounds as he listens for some clue
of the exact location they are walking.

One of his buddies panics in the looming wait,
rises and shoots wildly,
manages to kill one
before he dies in hail of bullets.

Patience pays off and the warrior knows
the exact timing to attack
one suddenly spurt of his ammo
catches every intruder to end the battle.

After lying as corpses
they all rise from the paint ball war,
laughing and moseying back to camp.

Monday the winner will return to his job,
any time the stress gets too much
hands will instinctively reach for his weapon,
which won’t be at his side, but at home.

It is the silence of the invaders in his head
by the combat of pretend,
yet for him it keeps sanity alive
through a quiet of his inner villains.
Without it
a real gun might slaughter
those who struck wounds to his calm.