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michael
mo
181193
SJI.trampGym

bricks fall off as i lean against the wall. the sheer weight of the armour nearly collapses the side of the house, its walls brittle from the heat of the gunfire. the sergeant barks at me, but his voice seems all blur. i get up, the wall crumbling down to the dust it came from and hoist the modified tactical shotgun over my shoulder. my armour was almost impermeable, from frags to mines; they made it laugh. it did its job, leaving me with a couple of shattered ribs and a few bruises.

it was a scene. it was a scene. two rows of battered buildings stood before me, humbled by how they were barely standing and i was still here, instead of being obliterated to another dimension. for the majority of the decoration, seven wrecked tanks knelt down as, what was left of the, fire danced gleefully around them. the familiar smell of fuel roamed the area, carrying around the smell of burnt flesh. i looked around in the air before bending my head down.

black carpets were infamous in the military. this is one had a diameter of fifty metres and was a large as those sold in a warehouse. everything on it was carbon, the molten metal armour were all spewed on the buildings. a grey helmet was the only exception. lucky guy must've been flung high up away from the intense heat of...

media events and whatever that was grand. that's where red carpets lay. they lay on clean concrete too expensive tiles, while ladies with long legs and their men with fragrant pockets walked across. black carpets: the blast radius of an antimaterial mine. always wondered why they called it antimaterial. it tears you apart whether you're man, machine, with and without armour.

it was a scene. it was a scene. but all i saw was the grey helmet. solid titanium laced with, very well distributed, carbon fibre. i could almost chuckle, the name printed on it in mere paint still existed. i could almost cry, the name was mine.

i picked it up with my free hand and made my way to the transport as i took out the helmet around my head.the pilot was swearing at my face. the very one that saw seven tanks and wasn't disfigured. the vulgarities rang in my head, but they were pushed out by the memory of the day.

the day i honoured my best fighter with my helmet.

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Jerry
Glen
Mikhail

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you are patient,
you are kind,
you'll never leave our minds,
you can hurt in the behind.

you are tender,
you are strong,
you would make a good steak,
and could last forever.

you are pleasure,
you are pain,
you're about giving,
and not what we stand to gain.

you are honest,
you are trust,
truth here is a must,
stop thinking about all that lust.

you are beautiful,
you are sexy,
sometimes you're so petty,
nothing but messy.

you are nowhere,
you are everywhere,
people are always looking for you,
surprise them, that's what you always do.

you are everything,
you are nothing,
no one could ever find the right words for you;
i know it's not nice,
but your name will have to suffice,
so... what are you?