You’ve taken their money to pay your way,
Now you must do exactly as they say.
It’s hard to condemn the hands that feed you.
You hear their voices as they rant and rave,
What part of their message do you want to save?
It’s hard to ignore the voices that tuck you in at night.
The stench of death hoovers over those who died.
Do their screams fill you with pride?
It’s hard to wash death from your hands.
Walls protect you, you’re losing your touch.
You hate everyone, and few people like you very much.
Splotches of blood are on your face.
You cannot escape death’s embrace.
Bright crimson flows down the street,
Staining souls, heads, and feet.
august 16, 2017