A child falls asleep to the ballad of bullets outside his window,
the song of silence long since lost,
drowned in the chaos of the nightly nuances of noise pollution.
The child rips back the blanket,
akin to a second skin,
and runs into the reaching arms of a frantic friend found in his mother.
Fear trills through the tresses of their terrified minds,
raging raucously,
running rampant.
In their last moments,
everything is frantic, fidgety, final.
The loss of life will forever be lamented by the lingering legion.
It's a suicide by cyanide,
our three word nursery rhyme.