Creating Enemies by Killing Civilians
Again. It doesn’t end.
The country is a comforter,
each stitch responsible for the whole.
The knife severs threads, pieces of the picture
hang like unwatered flowers in July.
That’s the confusion. The greatest fear
and not the greatest hope.
Every road is another colour of blood.
Every house the shell of a dream.
Saviours incite death. In the name of.
In time, no names are remembered.