The line is fine,
The change is instant,
A web of life, of love,
Passion and anger,
In a second
Is a statistic.

The ultimate betrayer,
The turncoat, the traitor
Is memory,
Etch your grief
On it, and watch it

The complex web
Of life, like a movie,
Unravels and tells
A story of that web
Without a theater.
The reel snaps,
The story

I am an agent
Of God, the God
Of death,
The unmerciful, He
Sends me to kill
To maim.

Are they lives?
No, my God
Tells me they are numbers
Who must gather
Into a statistic,
A tally
A milestone,
A ritual offering
To my God
Of Death.

The mask is on, the
Weapon cocked.
My mission is
Incomplete, until a
Thousand mothers
Mourn. Tell mine
Not to grieve, but
To sing in praise, for
I am
The chosen.

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