I should have known
The day I came home
Finding you all alone
Drowning in a blood-red sea
O broken mirrors.
Reflecting fragmented faces
Furtive, secret mazes
Disconnected places
Dark, empty spaces
Shattering all illusions
About the strangers
Perfect in the looking glass.
How could I have known
So far from home
Wandering on my own
Searching for direction
Reaching for connection
Imprisoned in a black-gray netherworld
Occupied by hooded demons hiding
From the mirror's lucid light.
-- Diana "Iyanna" Gwinn
SOFT TARGETS
They like the soft targets most of all
Stone-faced pilots Just doing their job
Raining death from above
Cluster bombs, brightly colored
Disguised like soda-pop cans
Explode in young, tender hands
Steel shards shot in the air
Rip through a bus filled with civilians
Shatter the supple spine of a 15-year old
Choruses of talking heads
As if in a trance
Regurgitate in unison
Smart bombs, surgical strikes
Deep penetration, collateral damage
While the war machine plays on and on
Another church explodes in Bombingham
Four little Black girls dressed in their Sunday best
Pastel pink and blue
Turned to charcoal burnt flesh
Police rejoice hi-fiving in joy and glee
A young woman, Tyisha Miller, lay unconscious
Her limp body they pumped with bullets
Just another death by cop
Radio-active metal streams gushing toxins
Hidden in copper IUD's
Invade warm, fertile crevices
Poisoning a woman's uterus
White uniform-clad medical professionals
Employees of the state
Inject death into the veins of a Vietnam war hero
Piercing his mother's battered and bruised heart
On the anniversary of his birth
A desperate mother begs on the sidewalk
Like frightened baby deer
Her hungry children hover near
It's a hit by US welfare deform
A contract on poor mothers and children of America
The blood of Palestinian children
Soaks the soil from which they spring
Israeli soldiers, God's chosen few
Obey orders from Tel Aviv and Washington
Cut them off and kill them
Before they grow
5,000 Iraqi children in 1991
12 years later, now there are none
Says Mad-lynn Albright, Secretary of Hate
It's worth the price I think, their biblical fate
A predator man lurks in the shadows
Heartless coward, dreams of power
Steals the innocence of a blossoming girl
Like depleted uranium bombs
Made in the home of the free market
Ejaculates contaminated waste into pristine virgin soil
Soft targets, human flesh and bone
Really turns them on
-- Diana "Iyanna" Gwinn
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