Francis Meyrick

Strange calm

Disembodied, I nonetheless exist – still. Surveying the smoking wreckage of my explosively downed, MI-28N attack helicopter. Ammunition going off, in the heat. Somewhere in that blazing, unrecognizable wreck?
My mortal, human, pilot remains burn.
But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

I saw it coming. The whistling blur, the fire, smoke. Seconds away. Then the sledgehammer. The G-forces nearly snapped my neck. Even then, I wrestled with the controls. Anti-torque pedals, cyclic, collective. Desperately, but my machine did not respond. Thrown around in my harness, I never quit fighting.
In those final, dizzying, pitiful seconds.
But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

It saddens me. Not my violent, yet insignificant passing. What saddens me is that you, the world at large, have mostly have lost your judgment, and your compassion.
How many of you will cheer at my passing? Or, grimly satisfied, just scroll on down your I-phone? Looking for your next momentary titillation?
As if I was just a pixel, in one of those savage video games you so delight in playing. You cannot, you in the West, you in America, see that you are next. You are next to be casually shot out of existence, militarily or existentially, because you do not matter. You are manipulated, deceived, by the same forces who cause the wars, killing millions of us, brothers, and then have the gall to advocate as your saviors.

You have good people trying to point the truth out, trying to warn you. But their voices are drowned out. Lost, in the cruel Media-inflamed, pack baying of the mob. You are back in the Roman gladiatorial arena. The players, down below, fighting bloodily for survival. While you cheer lustily, and boo, jeer at their pain, and casually look forward to the next unfortunates, to be forced upon the stage. For your cynical, shallow amusement. You are being led, by the nose, and amazingly, after all this time? You still don’t see the slave ring, piercing your nostrils.

They are coming now. I hear the whooping, and the laughter. They will stand beside my last battle, and high five one another. They will pose for photos and selfies, beside the smoldering corpse of their brother.
But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

The sun is setting. On the West.
I shall not wait for them, to mockingly poke my corpse with their bayonets. The frozen death mask upturned, eyes still open, staring at the sky.
I was a son. I was a father. I was a husband, and I was your brother.

I am walking away now, into the setting sun.
I grieve for me. My loved ones, who will miss me.
I grieve for you.

Those who I fought
I bear no hate.
If you will not mourn
your brother’s fate?
Instead, heap scorn
on all he sought?

Then know, you mock
so casually?
The Puppet Masters’ cherished goal
the focus of their cruel, dark soul
what they seek, the greatest prize

Your very own, abrupt, demise.

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-10679083