Guilt

A poem about brutality

Photo by AJ Colores on Unsplash

All palms are pale flags, waving from masts of doomed vessels.
As bullets are lifeless, they empty bodies of their life,
like uncorked bottles tipped over. Death wears a white mask.
Death wears blue light. Everything is a windshield
waiting to be smashed. To not speak, is to pull a trigger.