A Weaponry Poem by Naveed Akram

The real nature of a weapon, the real sort of prize,
Is its joy of presentation to the other half.
One man is incredible for joking about death,
The real bomb awaits the people to matter.
One sword is not two storms of death,
But ten innocent dead men, who simply have deceased.
Seize and rock him about with hands and feet,
The body shall become a corpse, a harvest of a kind
Is gathered, the corpse then uncovered,
For all to really matter.