Butterfly Grenades

You gave an 18 year old a gun and said aim for an artery.
Now he sits and drinks and aims for butterflies that remind him of grenades.
You gave a boy, fresh out of school, a tool. And with it, the responsibility of God.
Imagine, a boy with one chest hair and a wadded piece of gum for a brain.
A patchy little beard because he can’t grow a whole one.
He gave the birds refuge but you can’t sit there.

         Who lives.

                                         What lives.


He feels the thick, rusty, gun powder, musty scent when his wife cooks banana bread.

Click boom when the clock strikes 12.


              Click boom then his wife calls for help.

Will you send his children away, too?

How many butterflies must turn into grenades until we stop running blindly into war?

Trading young boys lives, when you know they are forever changed by the horror.