A shot.
Better yet, several — well-aimed and carefully chosen to hit me
when I least expect it. I don’t know how many.
They come from every which where
and strike me dumb.
My reaction time is pitiful.
First
the gradual realisation that I am indeed injured,
Then
the quick spiral, the panic, the *****  —
                  the blood never ceases to shock me
— and twitching legs, light dimming, eyes
robbed of character,
the gates shut.

I am but ruins, an anaphora
an empty, broken-down bookcase.

Half an eternity later,
I am returned.
I always am;
To the same battlefield, the same blood spattered wall,
the same cruel game where I am little more than a target.
Or
perhaps I am the idiot who runs
Oblivious
Into the crossfire — Who knows?
Pain is the only certainty.