"Pay for it at the pump..."

Pay for it at the pump, if not in the trenches,

But everything has a price, including freedom.

Politicians play chicken to see who flinches,

While a soldier wonders if he’ll see autumn.

The priest blesses weapons as if they’re children.

Those who don’t die become cold like metal.

Family time is the communal cauldron.

Even the drunk knows to repurpose the bottle.

The volunteers pack boxes with no addresses.

The subway is crammed but no train is coming.

The state TV is the opiate of the masses.

It’s either ballet here, or it's flowers blooming.

Across the fence, there’s a different picture.

The house is smoking, but it’s not the chimney.

A lover gasps as if his lung is punctured.

The bleeding sunset stains the virgin gurney.

The calls of sirens cut to the very marrow.

The best among us are conscience-smitten.

We craft each step to circumvent the mirror.

Nostalgia tastes like something foul and rotten.

The architect has lost his faith in structure.

The floating dust is utterly complacent.

No use in praying, searching through the scripture.

If He exists here, - He must be complicit.