mortar

my conscience says

that i have–in the course of 48h,

endless nights,

and countless drops of ink–

built an awesome weapon

that'll punch through steel like butter or Superman's finger.

were it a bomb, you could try and throw it away. but it's not.

so you'll resist its boom, and shelter yourself

between the fronds of your conviction.

you'll even cut wire red with wire green

intersect them and hope, it'll go for (what you believe) the best.

let us define it an attack of faith, i have a €2.70 receipt as a saint

and a desert of palindrome devils trying their hardest

i have voices of wasteful friendly fires

and nothing else.

all i do is stand here–with rain of stainless shrapnel.