the wind whispers to you in furious ways,
ominous notes, like a dusty violin
stenciling finality into the air.

the percussion
of foot-soldiers trembles the grass.

  you have grown, my war-child,
  from the days of ****** tea parties
  to a diva guerrilla,
  terrible and well-rehearsed,
  your bulleted libretto close to your chest--

and as trumpets sound in the offing,
the curtain draws back.

AK-47, pizzicato--
gasoline breeds fire, incinerates woodwinds,
the wine of the coloratura soprano
melts into blood.

  witch, *****, daughter of gunpowder,
  bella contralto, your
  deep and tremulous vibrato is a
  grenade,

and as death crashes to a crescendo,
mortality in the tin frequency of cymbals--

the only armistice
is annihilation.