Crossfire

I live in the crossfire,

within a battle fought with words.

This funeral pyre,

when will it burn?

The dead are piled 

in bloodied stacks.

Teeth and bones have tiled

the ground upon which I walk.

I listen for the sound

of wings beating on the air.

Laying on cold ground,

crying, waiting for the end.

Take up my gun 

and fire off some words.

Will I die, or have I won

this battle I was lost in?

Author's Note

Sorry it doesn't really flow or is kind of confusing...