in the back of the woods in the dark of the night

Something was wrong.

In fact that fickle, poetic past tense does

No justice to what it and what was,

For these crimes go on.

Something is out of joint.

Even the chickens flap furiously in disabled flight,

The threadbare donkeys trod nervously out of sight

As all come in view of the breaking point.

The zenith storms near.

Bare feet thunder away from the vicious tempest

That kicks up the thirsting land and seeks no rest.

Pure Fear.

It gnaws at bodies famined and weak.

Leaded legs and heads and hearts

Destitute from the very start-

The mild, powerless to raise the meek.

Who has committed murder?

Frozen on the ground, his dead eyes

Stare candidly into mine.

No eyes will look further.

Lizards twitch anxiously at every shot

That splits the vacant sky and

Its indifferent air above its uncaring land

That burns with passion I lack not.

The passion of a heart riddled with good intent,

Reeking like an offensive corpse of

A lack of conviction this can be solved

With mere passion, never spent.

There are no means and but one end

To these regrettable deaths

Who thrive on our empty threats

For this to be mend.

Who has gotten away with murder?

Surely not I, with my pen, so powerless

Doing nothing but crowing of my prowess.

Surely not the West

Surely not the best

Who lack all conviction

This fiction

Discernéd.