November 30, 1998
How many gun shots?
How many blood wounds?
How often across my mind the synthetic red
has shattered in grotesque imagery
of real people’s pain? The death
and suffering and sin that has torn a once
innocent world to gory shreds
must repeat itself, as if we had not
real blood in rivers through our streets.
The screams of a thousand mothers
will echo in my ears if I but look around;
why seek more?
Surely soon blood will be a film upon my eyes
as terror stalks my thoughts
to slay them for death’s cult following.
I do not wish to share my skull with corruption,
putrescence, hate and violence,
but how shall I wash these guts away?
Soon, how shall I grieve
for the world I seek in fascination?
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