War follows me around the world,
Its footsteps heavy at my door,
It seeps inside my soul through electronic capillaries,
Like scents from distant fields carried by a whispering wind.
News reports slap me like shrapnel to a wall,
They glare on small screens with dramatic energy,
Chasing one after the other in endless quest for recognition,
Title bars and news crawlers attempt to sort out the blaring mayhem,
On the phone, a local news reporter, “I’d like to get your feeling on the conflict overseas,”
My thorough answer on camera is compressed into a one line bit on the segment,
Now I too am a single note in the cacophony,
Every channel, all the time, the blood is spilled,
We’ll be right back after this message.