A Valentine in Lead

The morning broke in slanted light,

With ice along the alley’s breath.

Seven men stood still in line,

Unarmed, unknowing, close to death.

They’d come to talk, to trade, to wait—

But not for law, and not for fate.

Then silence cracked, and suits drew guns,

And love gave way to hate.

Two dressed as cops, the others plain,

They stormed the wall with ordered shout.

The Moran crew obeyed the farce—

They faced the bricks, they dropped the doubt.

No trial, no plea, no final word—

Just Tommy-guns that spat and flared,

A dozen seconds, red and loud,

Then echoed rage through air.

The city froze in sudden pause,

The blood still steaming in the snow.

Was Capone behind the trigger’s pull?

The streets, they whispered what they know.

But justice slept in smoky rooms,

And power wore a careful glow—

While headlines screamed and shutters slammed,

And flowers failed to grow.

No Valentine would ever bloom

Where bodies stacked on Lincoln’s floor.

No chocolates, hearts, or sweet perfume—

Just bullet holes and cellar doors.

A holiday with love in name,

Now marked by gangland’s grisly score.

For even saints can’t cleanse the stains

That Chicago history wore.