Crimson, Chernikov

What counts as a trophy? Victory? Vanity? Success? Failure? Memories?

Crimson, Chernikov. Pull up a stool, let us chat. What's that you're wearing? A hat? That's no hat, Son. I'll show you a hat. It's made of cotton and leather, A bow on the tethering dip. Sits. Just like you, on the stool. I believe the feather - Behind the black ribbon, Is the pure white from a cannibal, Living in the forests. Still a man. Still a monster. Have I shown you the tip? Well here, son! On the lip; A patch of crimson. Brought from the killing fields.

Author's Note

The overall 'rhythm' (there's not really much consistent meter) and the idiolect of the voice - does it suit the abstract topic?

Reviews

[heido]

Its about a man who has been in war? Is it not?

[matt30192]

That's very good yet rather morbid, though I may have got entirely the wrong impression