Death of the Leader

He sends himself to death's camp in the heart
That dumps the blood into the fingertip
Touching the trigger, still astir with art
To show what beauty is in the pistol's clip

And with a whimpered bang topples the head
Of state. One more Nazi suicide
Amid the shelling. All of him is dead,
The artist starving with his father's pride,

The architect who never grasped the concrete
Ways of our lives, the shocked eighteen-year-old
With no one for his heart to burn or beat
Shivered to sleep in streetwise Christmas cold.

In one tired, poor and muddled mass these men
Find execution. God lives. Man is dead.
The bullet has long flown beyond our ken.
We dump historic inks on that shot head

To blot him as mere evil, or insane.
Where do the sewers of flushed humans flow?
Don't ask. New heroes will not want to know
How much they are the monster to be slain.

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