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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