Like Iron

You planned to conquer the the world with your iron fists,
to help your leaders become where they should have been.
But you were turned upon by the one your leaders said would help,
& you were killed. Ruthlessly. Unnecessarily. In vain.
 

& sometimes I
find myself
crying because
you died.

& sometimes I
find myself
praying because
you should
have lived.
 

A deceiver in his lowest form ; dressed in red ; not usual,
took a cheap shot, through the chest four times.
But because your leaders said he was good, I believed them,
& so did you, so I guess that makes us both a little less ignorant.
 

& sometimes I
take for
granted the fact
that you're dead,
so I can write
angst poems
that make people
gag.

& then
sometimes I
think of your
face,
distorted
because of shock,
& then
I cry.

But because we're both a little less ignorant now about your
leaders and your killer, I want to let you know that I simply (but in
an extremely complicated way, knowing we could never ever,
ever be together) love you.

& I will cry,
& I will beg
& I will pray
that you get to rule with fists like iron
in the land of somewhere,
where I know you are.
 

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