I fear what is not real
false images play a scene
bodies in fatigues lay pulpy behind me
sharp pains pierce my ankles
but I escape scratched from the shots

with the final friend remaining
we rush for cover in a hydraulic press
its last red beam encloses, traps us in
the press moves towards us
we lay face down in the dark,
thankful we are not shot to die slowly
but become quiet as we hear it coming closer.

we cannot stop it or move to save ourselves
we want to cry but know it will do no good
i press against the ledge next to me
its concrete and steel will not move and i know this,
i hope to merely escape the press
i grab at the dirt and gravel below me,
in the dark it's the last thing i will see

she will be first to go
and i listen for her cries of pain
but hear nothing, nothing to warn me
and i squeeze next to the ledge and pray silently,
at least it is quiet here.
not like outside where screams and fire are rampant.

and i awake.
i awake from my doom.
a steel press and concrete walls exist no more.
the shots and cries have quieted.
all is quiet now, too quiet for me.

from my huddled position i stretch cautiously
and find that my sheets are more than damp
my pillow more than twisted
and my hands have found less than
nothing to grasp
as the raids die slowly from my mind.