Killing Men To Make Your Living

The window was perfect, not a scratch. Reflected late autumn days, wistfully watching mirror images snatched from its face,

people pulling their light opposite ways behind them, hurrying through existence.

Beauty swayed by distortions of the
playing across its
polished surface.

The moments leading to it are alive; Christmas trees and children squeezing disguises, wondering what surprises await.

The window is perfect,
but it can break.

Troubles of glass that will fly out and catch in our bubbles, drive a steamroller through our walls of tunnel vision, scares away pigeons and

imprisons minds in a time capsule
under public squares.

The window can be smashed, but
it can also be spared.

I know you don’t dare wretch these slivers from flesh, but I love you, the wound is just suggestive of something cut deeper, of stronger cloth.

The media
will opine and the guys
on camera grandstand, but hold my hand,
because they are scared of you, scared we won’t die when and where they decide.

That’s why they kill
men to make a living,
and we don’t revolt at the earliest signs.

The window can hold many things; a sign or a ghost, the loneliness begging endless attention. But the something that broke

(shattering collective minds)

and the grind of self-reflection comes to screeching halts, taxis on the asphalt,

gunshots ringing just out of sight.

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