No More Guns in The Meadow

Downed by my reticle,

There was no judge on trial,

A gash waterfalling velvet liquid on blades of sharpened grass,

They will ask for one more until there is no more,

And pillage the sanctuary until devoid of a core,

Bullets rain dance like iron mystics on trains of light,

Passing through organs to save souls and carry them away,

Away to a place beaming with dust from stars post collision,

Where nothing matters and pure matter is nothing,

Fingers do not beg for triggers,

Barrels will be replaced by mirrors,

Facing the one who lives forever unable to experience death,

& It’s perilous journey of birthing sweet fear,

When light flashes, know,

There are no more guns in the meadow