Lletres: Vendetta Red. All Cried Out.

Turn your back on your past, make your mark with a crime that lasts. "Guns don't kill," bullets do, and I've been saving one for you.

Hold me down, I can feel a seizure coming, think I took too much marazine.
Saw blade bits tearing tendons from your neck, like so much knives through bread, til your head sags, falls to the ground.

Cashmere crush covered in smoke.

I'm all cried out.

Soldiers march, a red sun sets, blood soaked babes on the bayonnettes.
The flag still waves for all to see,
Like moonlight on my machete