Not the killing type (Part I)
I try not to question my humanity
and let me be damned,
but I’m not the killing type.
I want to put out someone’s eyes
press them in or pluck them out
like the clear plastic baubles from a lifeless doll.
Like a force majeure,
rip the bricks from walls
watching architecture crumble and tumble
the relics of a past age fall,
flutter like shredded butterflies on the wind.
To see the roads upend
and people shriek in terror as they scramble
crushed into crimson smears
as rock rends flesh from bone.
The metropolises collapsing, and
each and every one the construct
of the sweat, tears and blood of some
long-dead widows and widowers, orphans
Ashes to ashes, and blood to blood,
dripping, visceral, like a water-clock keeping time.
Too many walls, and too little time;
the pieces of the city fly away with my mind
and a distant tower’s bell begins to chime.