The Art Of Genecide

Ponder is to thought as
Worry is to wait
And time is to ticking as
Peril is to fate
Now tragedies occur
In the dying immortal race
As a scurrying human
Tries to pick up his pace
Desperately searching
For that one soul
That will fix it all
And make him whole
While trying also
To keep in time
With the steady stream
Of war and crime.
“How contradictory,”you say
And yet you look
The other way
When his children are killed
And he goes to war
To settle some
Forgotten score
Long since forsaken
By his heart
And yet he feels
He plays some part
Genecide
Made like an art.
Bullets pierce
Like tiny darts.
“Enough is enough!”
We cry in our heads
But all that ever will be said
About that man when he is dead
Is that his soul was spattered red
When he was pumped with poison lead.