The big Z of Russia

 comrade the sea is not so far off
climb this building and find a vantage point
vehicles lay randomly strewn 
armored troops crawling through  

The ongoing storm brushes us into flooded shanty towns
heavy weapons tiring our unfed arms
Confusion and agitation teen soldiers solemn faces
We the turtles as bombs shatter rooftops

refugees are caught halfway through the medievil corridor
wet hay and darkness
Russia a jailer smirking with a fist full of keys
each one unlocking more pain in the east

antique furniture like sacred scripts
Tipped into the bonfires of pillage grips
huddling and praying for a victory before spring
Poison and sabotage to drain and follow them

External armor is the joke
when they have no internal protection
For the wounds incurred
by the shrapnel of conscience