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.