Contours are a brilliant camouflage. The folds of life slipping like satin. You don’t wear camouflage. It wears you. Erasing who you are. Bruises on the arms of life. Cuts on the wrists of time.
There are wars enough that we shall never stop fighting. That soldiers and weapons will always be required. There are wars enough that peace need not ever trouble your thoughts.
If we should pause. To let the bullets rest. Or sometimes wait. to give the trigger a chance to catch its breath. It’s only the fighting as it’s always been. the simple protocol of blood and touch. scribbling its art on any available surface.
These often battles and seldom words are the purest form of camouflage. The naked flesh. The trembling flag. And all the bullets necessary to preserve.
Quiet predators digging the path. Hidden beautifully in madness.