Strangers

Strangers tell me stories,
Visualizing death.

Strangers who know,
What it means to be afraid
And to care,
But to forget it all,
In the midst of hails of bullets.

Strangers tell me lies,
The lie is not subjective.

And then say it was a game,
It means nothing.

Strangers with familiar faces,
sing this strange song.

But the strangest stranger dances,
While New York falls and falls,
Till all that’s left is a newspaper,
A printed masquerade.

Where justice is a game,
Another pawn in a mass charade.

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