Heads in the Sand
High on belief the killer stands
face well hidden but not his hands
Imagination’s such a curse
the mind’s eye only makes things worse
Jihad? Crusade? What’s in a word?
Each severed throat can still be heard
The act of killing is now proud
shot cut spliced proclaimed aloud.
We kid ourselves we’ve left the mud
but still it’s either bread or blood
To live is to feel Power’s burn
pass on that pain and never learn.