Killing for god and country is murder–always

Myths once holy, morph to slag.

God dies.

Sex wilts.

Country frays threadbare.

There is not enough water to wash away

the festering stains that darken my days;

not enough dreamless sleep to clear unfocused eyes,

nor temper the pain beneath pallid, pustuled skin.

Gurgling, like a bullet-riddled lung

Pulling thick air through torn bloody tissue, I limp through life.

Breath desiccates everything to cadaver dust.


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