by Johnny Hampton

Burning minions, lathered in the rich arc of red fires
doused with the embers of hatred personified,
spin like lime-lemonade down the faucet of empty hearts.
Do not revive that which does not need resuscitation.
Hope floats and flies on the wings of a sacrificial albatross.
That which we worked so hard for,
crumbles like a cheap sand castle in a lightening storm,
tearing down the walls while I melt fervently.
Staccato of rapid gunfire sounds like music to deaf ears.
The fresh fragrance of smoldering lead projectiles.
Jupiter-sized hailstones thrown like grenades against innocence exploding.
Screamed whispers gargled in the throats of people no longer alive, afterthoughts of war.
Happily ever after, the land of make-believe
where cheap lives are dashed like seasoning salt.
Perspective is seared into sizzling layers of the stratosphere.
Cinderella sweet, bittersweet fairy tale ruined by extinguished sunsets.