The Wounds Of War Poem by rogers monda

The Music of the AK 47
Solemn and unforgiving
its dancers gyrating their hips
from here to there
leaving a bunch of mourners in their wake

The eyes of a dead man;
glassy and teary
faces dark and bloated
staring into empty grey spaces below
either side of the death abyss

the voice of the rhetoric
sweet and sexy
promissing bliss and a touch of grease to the palms
stepping into the leadership and ordering for more music
oooh sing this song, a cycle