“Casual kill is the name of the game,”
I said to him, in that layer of soot, that clung to his wings,
Bloodied and torn- fallen angel, with the lips of a murderer and the eyes of a king,
He laughed, and spoke, “the world ends with us, love, the sanctity that you see and you hear
Is nothing more than the passionate shore of an island ravaged by fires and fear.”
My triggers were frozen in the ticks of a clock, and the shot was as quiet as the tocks of a tumbler,
Sliding and chiming for future alignment of a combination, red,
white,
blue,
Green, white, forefathers
Cultural
Bankroll
Identity crisis
And the suitcase was more like a millstone, that grew from my chest,
Of some alien origin, gnawing and clawing at the nerves of my neck,
And the visible shit of the American Dream,
It throttled the horizon upon a pale, grey Fury street,
Where the cars passed nervously among our sandy, ashen feet,
But I cried for him,
And the saga that he’d left upon the wasteland,
That all of us called Heaven.
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