My Godson thinks machine guns
and hand grenades are cool.
And I'm shaking
with breaking
tears lighting my face
for he can't understand
hell-terror's fireworks
and rockets that bleed
from the ears of the eyes
left out and quaking.
My Godson is six
and thinks killing is funny.
And I'm holding my rage
at this breathtaking stage
teeth clenched on media's guilty
black callous misleading
these boys become soldiers
and rockets that bleed
on this miserable
life spending mage.
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