Padded feet cover ground, soothing the marshes,

peacefully efficient.

Stripes cover cheeks, harmonious with the forage,

hiding a smile as serene as the forest floor

when the silencer is used—

a muffle for the small, triumphant victories

of a tranquil homeland,

undisturbed by the friction of emotion.

The weight of the hush follows us into payphone booths,

through scoured headlines and craters left for truth.

We are baked like dough in the heat of stolen air,

a suffocated youth, rising in the dark.

Eyes are kept open until they are forced closed,

the mind wandering until the spirit is shaken loose.

Now, only one goal remains in sight:

To destroy the enemy.

All is tranquil, and quiet indeed.