Right Hand

I carry a machine gun draped over one shoulder, other hand shoved into my pocket Nonchalant grim reaper with a list of names, fist balled up around bitter poetry, the names of future dead Angel and devil each whisper into my ear, standing on their tallest tiptoes They hide behind me when I kill, unwilling to see another soul removed from this barren earth I don’t look my victims in the eyes as I end them because they don’t matter to me I will not be charged with their murder because I am simply an extension of another: the commander of death calls me their Right Hand, but I do nothing but Wrong I am tall because my boots stand upon corpses littered across the bloodied mud I toss aside the list and fire at will because the commander does not care about specifics, just death That is the point of a war, is it not? If you cause enough pain, you can force others to alleviate your own Commander calls and I leave without a second thought I am a shadow, the last thing you’ll ever see Welcome to the end of the world, war three