More than anything else
when I read about the death
and deaths
happening in worlds
I have been shut away from I
am aching to throw myself
on the pyre and blaze
however momentarily
and perhaps bring
a tear to someones eye
knowing full well
that I
killed as many of those motherfuckers
as the balanced and well tuned sights
of my mechanical
and beautiful and reliable lover
would allow me to touch
out of a delicious and acquired taste
for otherwise unknowable flesh
and the peace of an afterlife
reserved for the softly caressing knowledge that
something I did
mattered to a thing
and a people
greater and abstract and still greater and fingering
the lives of everyone not
there...
...and that affectation
was all and immediately
and willfully
the result of a cause adopted
of my own heavily orchestrated accord.
To wear a scar.
To bear a scar unworn.
Let us not mince words
as intentions are so easily
minced.
A tear shed has little value
without its context
and its oh so very valuable
and more often foolish
impetus.
