Death knows how to gag tie your means to speak,
Take hostage every morsel of joy in your tongue,
Empty homes, then leave doors but not bodies to creak.
You are his target practice.
He squints as you run,
Takes aim then fires at your stomach,
Shooting each hopeful butterfly 'til you vomit bullets.

He is more open than a nation’s arms.
Losing is a game that He makes sure you always win.
Would it help if he signed the letter that said your soldier
Wasn’t coming home
Instead of being the mail carrier.
Death has been war’s mistress for so long,
He’s gotten older and wise enough to wait by a country’s barrier
As little boys bare arms, a brigade of gravediggers
So He only has to worry about pulling the trigger.