Sestina For Snipers - Dustin Vado
The streets reek of frosted bodies here in hell.
This is my street, a corridor wallowing in my care,
anything that passes through those markers, I shoot.
Still and dark, I watch for movement and long
for a home like I once had, happy and warm...
My current home and roommate don't love.
Now, still bodies are what I love.
Sending trespassers to meet their wives in Hell,
snuggling in apostate piles to keep themselves warm,
they bathe their children in the blood of mine with care,
with no regard to whom their source of water may long...
Pigs stillness my solace after I shoot.
Why do women and children still ask why I shoot?
They dare dirty the mat on the stoop I love
and seeing no one watching, forget that my round travels long,
every trip to the market now a living Hell.
Head the “KEEP OUT” sign painted in blood, the best care
for the hearts they want to stay warm.
My barrel, now cold but soon warm,
I spy the woman I chose not to shoot
last week, seeing a babe in her care...
A voice spoke to me that day, one of love,
but so did Omar before the woman blew herself to Hell
sending him to his family, he will no longer long.
This is my street, not winding, not long.
Once beautiful, now ashes, tears of the dead stay warm
simmering and buried in the waste between Heaven and Hell.
Don’t they know this is my street!?!?! Between these markers, I shoot!
Rifling twists the line between wrong and love
and sends my kiss on hidden slugs to the morgue bound with accurate care.
There is no care like a mother's, a father's, but a lover's care
stains memories that despite overstaying their welcome remain
to remind new trespassers of my love
that comes swiftly and unseen, no lover's embrace to warm
fuzzies on my street, no stroll down happy lane when I shoot
with every breath and squeeze, I pray closer to Hell.
Five years ago, I prayed to Allah in heaven and never dreamed of Hell.
Never even a nascent desire to defend or shoot
but now, after all lover's voices faded, stillness keeps me warm.
