You hold the smoking 

gun in hand wondering why

your feet are bleeding 

A plaintive voice calls

from just out of site, but yet

a vast gulf away 

Subtlety is a 

lost art in a world so brash

and boisterously bland 

Language's double 

edge lets us illuminate 

or lead them astray 

No burnt offerings 

can mend the body's broken 

temple nor torn veil

Broken smiles from lost

souls seep into consciousness 

only in hindsight 

The birds have become 

raucous like drunken British 

football fans this morn