Saturday, December 15, 2012


Comes the sun that we cast down in ashes. Comes the day we list our sins in steam. The sun all squandered in drizzled beams and bright lies. The sun all spent for some other season, the price of some other world. The sinking feeling sacrifice, the cost of finding fire is watching all this smoke. Every stone sings out for solace, every song drowned so long ago. The evidence is absent, but all they can talk on is the ever after. Riddle our babies with bullets, pretend that the question is why.

The word is wings and whispers, it is unbottled lightning, it is swifter than thought. All the prophets all ears and grave proclamations. All our leaders all thumbs and fear. The word is loosed and we pretend we do not worship death. The word spills free and grief can not violate the sanctity of the instrument. The killing hand will find its fit, whatever death happens to be convieniant. The killing hand is sacrosanct when it is blessed with extra ammo and spits death in droves.

Come the end there will be no comfort. Come the end there will be no answers than mean anything at all. Say whatever prayers your custom dictates. Kiss your children and hold them tight. The day will come of no tomorrows, the madness wanders reckless through our dreams and streets. It's just like living in a movie except the bullets are unkind. Fill your hands is the national anthem, while howls of sorrow ring out loud and true.

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