my god, they shot him dead

my god,

they shot him dead

along a public thoroughfare

in front of everyone who was standing there

including Cicero

and a roving band of merry pranksters

all holding signs

detailing their nefarious designs,

but forgive my ignorance;

my eyes are balls of flame,

trying to focus all the blame

on the shadow world of conspirators playing in this game:

the motorcycle agents with menacing Israeli guns

and i should admire their handy work,

but am stuffed with a personal quirk:

i want to experience a type of world without endless war

like the moon i see outside my backyard garden door.

but the streets are wet with blood,

little drops like hot grease bouncing inside a frying pan;

and some crowd of crooks saw him as a monster,

not as a human man.

and 

my god,

they shot him dead,

not waiting for a final word that he might have said.