Did you think the same as me
that the night would come and
swallow us and did it come, was it that that followed us through bombed out streets
and
alleyways where the children knelt at mothers graves and prayed
to a god that had forsaken them?
was the god of love the only true love, hard love, the take away you knew love,
who did die, who, and watch the children cry?
I die each time, all the time when fine men
in their fine and fancy lives accumulate another strike to strike against the unprepared
and I share their pain,
against all the odds which have been fixed by the gnomes in Zurich and they picked me to
rant and rave about the lack of humanity,
and profanity like chords of music drip from me, a dirge, a surge to
take my mind away from the alleyway, a balm to soothe my soul when the
whole world falls apart when the smart but so unsmart bomb falls.

Hear them cry?
I do
and die
a little more.