We hoard power,
and it is delicious, is it not?
Oh, the smell of winning, it crawls within us,
flying down our throats and consuming our hearts
tingling in our blood, our glorious father’s minds our own.
It is our duty.
We see that the others have bombs
Then, We want our own,
craving the taste, the ambrosia of the flame,
the money peeling off our skin into the split atoms
that rip apart the world,
but no matter
We have power.

What We have is like no other ---
the metallic planes that glow,
glittering against the clouds,
planting gifts on those who are lacking
in silence.
The vapor strokes their figures,
and for a moment, they squirm, alive again,
the broken dust their shattered screams,
the shimmer of the heat their goodbye waves,
as the wind and the sea carry their toxic kisses, at last,
to our own land.

In an instant, the rotten fingers snatch our throats;
skin lying in peels, eyes marinated in yellow,
the whisper of disease rushing through our invincible blood
in a sick emulsification.
Cells crumble like stale rolls;
soft mounds plunging in on themselves, as the flies nibble the core
Yet even to the last, we savor our power
our clouded eyes relishing in dreams of fire
our faces sliced apart in jagged grins
and the oozing flush of our own bent minds
and shattered hearts,
the last, fractured flavors,
devour our mouths.