A Requiem Written in Powder.

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Terrorists,
They love music.
Every tweak of their thoughts
Creates a concinnity.

Music is pain to create,
Yet all the delectation resides in the delivery.
The angst that clasps on the tips of fingers
As they sweat off the codes of every lyric.
Then sigh as the directors sew all the shards of beats.
In the whetting of all the musicals,
There is the acclaim of perfection.

As fingers caress the edges of riffles
And the conductor’s stick at the helm,
The ensemble awaits upon the fall
And the wind to carry along the echoes of their executions.

The arena is life to the music.
The revellers all wail at the ambush of every drumstick,
With the composers gleaning at their farting creeds.
And suffice Al Jazeera with tales of their dance victories.

Terrorists,
They are not your ordinary musicians.
Whose compositions are written under the shades of palm trees.
Theirs send chills
and are only mastered by their ilk.
They’ll make your women dance
For their music is irrefutable.
Those then become the last dances we know of.

When they perform,
Gun powders replace the burning of dust.
Choking becomes the foreboding
To the final salute that is signed in blood.

What remains of the smithereens that linger
In the chambers of the riffle tunnels,
Scatters on the the flesh of the compelled listeners.

Sweat,
It accompanies the grit of bits and
The notes of the barrel kiss the quiver of nerves.

Terrorists,
They love music.
Every tweak of their thoughts creates a requiem.

© 2014.

7 thoughts on “A Requiem Written in Powder.”

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