192 – Azrael

A simple white smear
Surrounded by red drops,
Lazily sliding
Down a broken mirror.

The faint smell
Of minty-fresh toothpaste
Mixed with fresh blood
And settling dust.

The sound
Of crying voices
And distant sirens
Getting louder.

Quiet moans
Among fresh rubble
Growing silent
One by one.

Bad intelligence,
A regrettable mistake,
Insufficient data,
The wrong set of coordinates.

Always something else to blame.

Press conferences
And hasty investigations
That will conclude
It was a simple case
Of bad luck.

Above a desert town
A carbon fiber winged
Angel of death
Remains untouchable.

• • •

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