Stand guard at the window,
Stand guard at the door.
To protect you, dear widow,
Is what we are here for.
A dead face peers at us.
Uncomprehending and wide-eyed.
Soon things like it will kick up a big fuss,
We’d all rather they be tied.
Soon, the shots ring out
As guns open fire.
And things will start to burn about,
Just like funeral pyres.
So sit there, dear widow, and mourn the death of your father, husband and more.
To protect you, my dear, is what we are here for.
A poem written by Blood Butterflies (Tessa) and posted with permission.