Few Among Others

There’s nothing fair about the gun,
It was created for balance
in the right-wrong way, did you hear the sound?
One day it was used to pick on stones out of diamonds,
for the sake of trees that have become money.
Wood caught up with him and cuffed him,
water refused to flow, the beds still dried
guns came around dancing in the night
sorrow packed the people watching
rain drowned on their lingering hope.
What will be tied to the tree
is not a branch worth the death of matchsticks.
Bones break to hurt the flesh
so the ears can know the true meaning of a wound.
So I ask you whose prophets are phony
please pack paces pricked by pitchy people
and remove the lashes covering the eye.
Say the psalms and look for retribution
in the hollow songs of saints.
No victor lives in this house
so no tales of victory will ever be sour

Ruddapoet