he lay strangely still on the floor, head twisted to a grotesque angle.

his eyes were staring, staring but unseeing.

the tiny head blasted open by stray rounds was like a shattered porcelain vase.

hair, scalp, brains. torn and tattered. a raggedy ann doll ripped apart.

the silky maroon cloth he last rested on was curiously fitting. red, dark and flowing.

all blood and no cloth. all cloth and no blood.

the clothes were dusty and faded, and the same grey dust embalmed his youthful features.

yet, within all the chaos there was peace. admist the noise, there was silence. among the frantic running, there was stillness.

and within death's embrace was a boy with a pristine face.