Poetry

The doubters will cross the coals 
after the raid. 
Apology will not be in attendance. 
 
Sitting on the throne of 
cold blooded assassination, do you think 
justice demands the revenge? 
 
Whom you are killing, the body 
or the spirit? Heads will roll 
after debriefing. 
 
O my god, politics always 
enters the fray, when you are preparing 
a carpet of roses. 
 
Against the black moon 
a fast unto death 
by a virile sunblind?