Once spontaneous 

now we dislike unforeseen 

phone calls or visits 

Bone-yard children gnaw

on meatless scraps and sharpen 

knives impatiently 

The sun deceives on

days like this when wind rattles 

the windows and doors

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