Who Will Be Next?

Who will be next?
Will it be me
shot dead by friendly fire?

Could it be me
running desperately toward the wire
where the river runs,

 but never be able to cross it; 
instead shot down
by friend or foe alike?

Too far to yell, too dark for flags;
no radio 
for sending a signal,

having escaped;
still being hunted by captors 
between the lines;

assumed to be the enemy
by friend and enemy alike.
I’m afraid to move. 

Abandoned, I pray to God  
that once-upon-figment
of imagination.

Such is my desperation.
Such is my need.