Blood Doves
Another summer of black bullets and white heat rhetoric.
The tally is in, and once again, black tears outpace death.
Fiery marchers adding another link to Martin Luther's chain.
Bull horns blowing poison balls of rubber room insanity.
The innocent are forever gifted to the cool, uncaring earth.
With hanging head we ask, "what's a poor life really worth?"
Enter the smoke and cracked mirror of onion paper blame.
Water colored common sense, sent bleeding down the drain.
Into the mouth of death, time tosses a mint of forgiveness
'til the dove inherits another black bullet to the breast.
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