calculation is a one hundred yard
scope situated on the rifle;
premeditation, as the nervous destination
of pacing feet is met in
circular motions. conscience, what’s
that? it’s been nine years
and you’re still hiding behind
a movement shoving crosses in it’s opponents
faces. they shout
condescending remarks
to the women you claim suffer abuse,
whom you abuse
with your dissonant presence.
you’re stillborn humans
animated by a whim, activated by verses
and tied down by umbilical cords
to ancient splints
assembled perpendicular to help
stand you higher, mightier,
most righteous murderer
of a father, a brother, a husband.
so that’s what it means
to save a life.
to send it into oblivion,
obsolete, just like
you.