Screaming into the open air until
My throat is torn and still
Screaming up the bloody hunks
Hoping that having to stop and
Scrape some part of me off of their faces will
Make them pause long enough to look at
The world they are helping make
Tinted red by something not a sunset
And stop in horror at how the hue
Ruins all the views they had thought to have

They do not listen
Of course
And why should they when
They bathe so gladly
Drink so deeply
Of the wine of which I am a fountain
But one more small faucet pouring out upon them
And stay drunk on the spirits they ingest
?

When the time comes that
They must sober up
And they see what covers them
And the long line of those who
Wounded
Have yielded it
Who will then have the axe in hand
And swing it one more time?

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