Foreign blood on a American hands is nothing new;
but the prize has been captured, the
golden fleece sent out to sea, bullet-bludgeoned,
soaked in bloodlust and clumsy vengeance
Does that mean we are coming to an end?
Confetti flies for the death of one man,
lands lightly upon the graves of thousands,
the ones for whom it is too late,
the many that are empty but
will soon enough be filled.