Breaking Iraq

We were without anything
I set off on a fool’s journey
and when sickle’s and axes did their work
I cursed the both of you for being flawed
for not meeting my expectations
of an idol and exceeding them
for my own good you handed my pick axe
and while doing it got speared
for thirty pieces of silver
I ignored the apostles on the capital lawn
I was never one of Rome’s sons, but I
wore his armor, carried the banner,
and longed to feast on her children
now, my two forgotten brothers, bleeding from
their stomachs, thirsty, crying
skin burning on asphalt
recouning God knows what
The same pair of eyes looking up at me
The Roman
the day-dreamer
the butcher
the sleeper.

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