Crying on The Rifle
Bombarded, in the public
we dip our fingers in our eyes, unknowingly. Patriotic?
Anthemsinging before the media, but
disappearing tearssheding in our hearts' secretplaces.
Or suicidal? Or selfdecieving?
Selfdestruction-forced foreign dependence.
The giants that we are,
washing with tears our destroyer in our bosom.
shed in secretplaces are our tears,
like blood of soldiers that march to enslave easygoers,
in campaign for pseudopeace.
Like future of those poverty-stripped civilians
that vote in militants,
and liveon bulletseverdodging.
Like names of elder statesmen,
who for our national security
set the city on fire
and travel abroad.
Fingers disconnected from nerves,
and bullet-riddled minds
groping in the ruins
of a keeping-peace site;
site of easygoing hostcivilians
whom foreign peacekeepers force peace upon,
dismantle in psyche and skeletonstrip.
And still say
'we war for peace'.
But the truth is said in their hearts secretly,
'We fight to abate our fears,
feed our greed,
protect our superiorpose'.