A line, very carelessly drawn,
Bleeds too much red.
Inside all that gore, a number is sliced into two.
No. More than one. Countless like rainstorm.
Jesus Christ. Motherfather.

The weatherman, my best friend, is always wrong;
He told me that every storm comes after
The weekend, when god finally has the time
To plan hell for us.
Of course I haven’t prepared my umbrella.

There are dying messages.
I do not care to read them;
I can only focus on the body count:
The gaunt fraction in red.
Decimation is an understatement.
More like a Columbian destruction.

I am told that if I don’t read
The dying messages, same thing will happen
Again. Crazy bastard, don’t make it serial.
Don’t want to F everything up.