I sweep the war-torn
landscape
like a surveillance camera
scanning
the waste and ruin
for signs
of survivors.
I see none.
Only a terrain
riddled with
the visible scars
of so many
recent skirmishes.
And then it hits
me. A concussion
implodes within.
There is more than
the obvious devastation.
Silence, I see, is its own
incendiary device. It can trigger
a pain and cut deeper
than the shrapnel
from any detonating land mind.
The silence after explosions
sometimes is far more
damaging than
the explosions
themselves.
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