As if Sleeping, a child
lies quietly, curled into
a ball not dissimilar to
the cat in the corner
I watch the child for
a single solitary sign
of life within the child’s
unmoving tiny breast
Golden blonde hair matted
with the mud of the floor
and his own coagulated blood
undistinguishable now
Clothes once proudly worn are
Ripped and torn revealing
the youthful dirty body beneath
a body forever still
The hole gaping in the
Breast obscenely oozing blood
and tissues forming a lake
around the child’s body
I look at the gun held
loosely in the child’s hand
then at the one in mine
and I curse this damn revolution
