These are
skeptical times
where God is a fog,
where poetry is obsolete,
when an echo of a gun fired
resounds and
shows no signs
of ever stopping,
Where we die like dreams.
And before we become
nihilists harping 
on the meaninglessness
of life like Meursault, 
Coming out of Camus’s
imagination and
killing an Arab for no reason,
Believing it doesn’t matter 
at all, who lives,
unfeeling, detached to 
be cracked at the guillotine,
let’s go back to 
the roots of
Life and proclaim it 
to be Love.
Let’s be vulnerable.
Let’s end this affiance 
of never writing
poems full of tenderness.
Vows are breakable 
like petals. 
Let’s pluck them away 
and give in to 
the guilty pleasure.
A poem for an eye
will make the whole
world calm.
Let’s put a flower in the
barrel of the gun
weave a shroud
lower it down
sprinkle mud.
Bury it with a heart.
Bury it with a heart.