Poesy plus Polemics

curvatures of anger
spare no direction
slash in wilding circles
keen scimitars
flourished by
furious hands
slicing bones and beliefs
within reach of
the cold whistling
speed of its arc
guilt or innocence
hardly material
fall equal victims
with viscera tumbled
and torn to the ground
cut into meaningless
medical waste
until no one’s left
standing or breathing
or living just bleeding
and anger subsides
within uprising gasps
of “my god what
the hell have I done”

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