Bullets beget bullets, thus,
as seeds to trees to seeds,
a violence which enslaves all of us
until murder, itself, breeds.
Pernicious pandemic of profiteers
pilfering the dead for a lucrative cause
and promoting a life of arrears
and chaos from order’s laws.
Your seeds bloom from fertilizer
afforded by endless blood debts
in the hearts of each survivor
who, aggrieved, never forgives or forgets.
And so the paradox bears fledglings
as fear and anger born of Love,
for the slain dead spread their wings
in every heart—hawk born of dove.
The Fury comes, serpent-haired and wild,
cloaked in blood and flayed skin,
raising Cain as Christ is exiled
and seeking vengeance against sin.
Each bullet is a snakebite
envenoming vendettas ever onward,
pursuing a perpetual fight;
cycles into cycles, culling the herd.
It is a cull to credit the coffers
for those whose creed is Fear,
prostituting the Fury with offers
of human sacrifice, year after year.
Behold the war to hereby become
king of the corpse mountain,
the rest of us desensitized, numb,
while blood gushes as a fountain.
Thoughts and prayers to the dead,
but offer blood to our new idol,
and a space in your heart, in your head,
subsuming all else dear and vital.
And join us beneath our beloved goddess
whose serpents bite their own tails—
her bandolier is but a bodice,
each bullet increasing its own sales.