Paintball

The aftermath of the war was a quiet disgrace,
A feint of victory. Laurel wreath pride
Hung over the ruined buildings of the city I lived in,
Hastily pasted on crushed cracked walls.

Years passed. They did that on their own.
Buildings regrew as if by magic.
Pyrrhus was purposely forgotten; maybe never existed
Except in the very
Blood, bone and brain
It never went away.
The dry dead heart pumped air.

One afternoon, I went paintballing.
Curious to relive warfare as a leisure pursuit
I donned combats, padding to protect us
From the blows of spitball assault
By teenage kids, too young yet to have scars
From patched-up wounds the depth of ours.

I found the conflict easy.
I saved my bullets, snipering at first
False pride in the invisible hurt, unhit.
Then running into hives to scatter the bees
Feeling the returning stings as butterfly kisses
Laughing when they broke the skin and drew real blood.
Growing greedy, I volunteered for suicide missions,
Returning again and again to the yellow hail of paint.
Bruises were already forming when we stripped ourselves of green,
White planets with purple auras: I was a galaxy.
My painted Mohican and my bloodletting.
The young looked on in awe at my strength.

Stiffening in my pain I felt relieved
The war was truly over.

On the way home I saw autumn leaves dance
With confetti on the Town Hall steps.