Leftovers

Guns melted down for safety
owned by the God who fights so that
Others may die and spare his existence and name.

We praise those flat-lined stars who
keep us immune to the infections of eggs
and threatened only by worms.

We live on a wheel of death blind to the prizes
that he chooses, as he chooses who
plays again and who gets sent back home
with only a bag.

As long as we wake up and can crawl out of our
bed of needles, though soaking with blood and guilt
We'll allow the time-bombs in our heads to
shift to our closest stranger
unwillingly.

We sell our will and our breath so that we
may take another
we take solace in words and titles of love
But celebrate in our rights to die before
the body of our messiah, silent
invisible, anonymous.

They sell us rotting meat as prime
and we buy it.

Our taste, lost to the mutilization of scriptures
driven only by the bloodied carpet
and belief

The death of a Gunn, in the name of life.
The acceptance of death, in the name of life.