Dear Death

You’ve got a lot to answer for, you cold

   Son of a bitch—the way you work your trade

Sucks knives—taking the young before the old,

   Ignoring Kissinger (I bet he paid

You off with the Vietnamese he killed

   To get that Peace Prize)—letting monsters live

And profit while the world’s caskets are filled

   With innocents.  Just once, please, put a shiv

Between a tyrant’s ribs—just once I’d like to see

   The harmless make it out alive instead

Of being slaughtered by the conscience-free—

   Just once give those who deserve to be dead

      The dark dirt nap of your eternal slumber.

      And if you need that shiv, you’ve got my number. 

 

Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells