Blackout: to the tune of a broken heart. This AK-loveletter has torn my home apart. Your winter massacre has become an autumn
sepulchure. These fathers now handle napalm, while their children sleep without them.
This is your shame. Another seventeen died today. And a dozen are on their way. Yet long before the sound of landing gear on desert ground the envelope is signed and sealed like a unibomber's secret
But better kept.
There's no apology for this blood-shot abundance.
See: the morbid news reels seem to repeat subconsciously. There's no apology for this blood-stained apathy.
It's a bandage for a bullett wound.