The Calling

Angel of Death
Perches on
One coast
In the distance
Another coast
Sleeps
He hears
His calling
Wings outstretched
He drifts into
The room
Gently
Softly
Where the
Gun
Is askew
On the floor
Little fingers
Still tangled
In the trigger
Little
Soul
He lifts
Upwards
Called again
Wings silent
He finds them
Shopping
For
Morning
Milk
Mourning
Instead
He
Takes
Each hand
Lifts them up
From blood
Glass
Splattered milk
Bullet casings
Called again
He turns
And
Be beats his
Wings into
The headwinds
On the southern
Coast
Alone
She sprawls
On sand
Gun still in hand
He lifts her up
Called again
He sails north
Finding
Her surrounded
By men in blue
They
Are still
Fighting for her
After
Fighting
Crime
They fight
Death
He lifts her up
He is called again
Across the world
The Angels
Are called

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