Midnight In The War

Midnight in the war. automatic
shots pop funereal percussion.
No blood flow, yet. Just crazed
metallic chatter from mouths
of babes. and tear drops from torn
sky. Daddy P labors into night
pouring sweat and time into
black hole of credit trap, leaving
Mama nervous, spirit suspended
over crossfire of the deceived. she
getting old and my warrior soul wonders
if this is reward for laboring all life
bullets flying in hood's suicidal alleys,
behind two car brick garage, still
being purchased by Daddy's
midnight sweat. bullets aimed at God's heart
by children lost to themselves. bullets flying
heritage dying, Mama jumpy and crying.
my eyes become blood and I want war.
want to kill in alley deranged makers
of Mama's teary rage. I go for steel
but she pulls me to knees, speaking
in murmurs and prophet's tongue. 'Oh Lord
deliver us, ' she prays. 'We can't do nothing
but pray.'

by Gregory Powell

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