Arching death
It streams through the air into the clouds,
its smoke is everywhere like it shrouds.
Like a blanked wrist whipped to lay down,
like the dropping of the outer gown,
smooth it roles to all the sides,
then flattens as it softly dies.
Then the next one,
another from the gun,
another blanket of the booming sound,
another shaking of the surrounding ground.
Off it goes to who knows where,
distanced, the horrors we\'re spared.
Repetition like an automatic gun,
shooting rounds towards the sun.
Arching death from above, from the sky,
we still think of those that die.
Like the inner barrel our minds are spun,
unknown numbers we killed with our gun.
Arching death, leaving stretching streams,
distanced are the dying screams.