The sun wouldn't shine the day man conquered air:
white suits and pilgrim ties engraving gravity,
plastic versus paper before enemy lines,
our breath hanging in the air like a bread crumb trail.
he could fly with his gun strapped to his thigh,
own rotten streets with a cavity march,
burn your brick buildings with visions of peace
and swallow his pride with false dignity.
Where were the lines? We never asked,
only drew and erased the mistakes of the past
for a nuclear treaty, a cease-fire at last.

The sun wouldn't shine when they trudged through desert greens;
his armies, ruled by the genocide scene,
and a soldier, part human, part machine:
a claim to wandering aimlessly,
of bartering bullets for crooked teeth,
of sweeping the streets with a marketing scheme
to bludgeon the burdening beggars beneath.
Where is the crossing guard when worlds collide?
A man may dream of a house and a bride
but still awakens in the dead of night to gunshot echoes,
the silence of sound, quieting the heart and mind
with no air left to conquer and no war to fight.