at the edge of some
surrealist landscape, all grey
fields and monotone sky and
blood red roses
late november and the
highway littered with bones
the crows grown fat
nothing to do with the gun
in your hand but kill
no one to tell you they
love you but your children
and your children are gone
the enemy is always
in your blind spot
is always creeping closer
how else to end this war
but with the slaughter
of those who are wrong?
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