The Rifle That Never Shot

Troops sent to destroy the disorder

Brought on by the trotting of tribes

Distinguishable by the kind of insanity

Each one of them could potentially commit.

Hundreds of doors broken like jaws,

Of bones laid at a hazy grave

Where mist mistakenly flows;

You could tell it is a ghost,

With the smell of the dead

Loud in the background.

By the sides, walls painted blood

That drips to capture the theme

Of the kind of acts committed –

Violence of course, sinister in act.

So we were there to do more harm,

‘Shoot the enemy of your state’.

This reminded me of that day –

The day of my birth,

Where hate was openly allowed to exist

In reality, not just in fiction.

Missions carried out and concluded.

Millions laid as waste and decomposed

To point out the exasperation

Our leaders must have felt.

For sure, war is not for show.

Sentinels armed to sanitize sons

That victimized the ‘always blamed’ gun

For the kind of noise it omits

Before letting loose the bullet used

By criminals to a victimless society.

If you arrest the perpetrator,

Why do you also arrest the gun?

Nonetheless, there we were upon arrival

As the bombs blasted open the soldiers

Crying ‘death’ with their tools of doom.

I bet they had it all under ranks,

That caused them to stamp a flag.

That night I slept in the holder’s arms

Ready for my big moment to shine

Only to find I was jammed.