BB Dust

I got a BB gun.
Upon reaching adolescence.
First chance I got,
I went "hunting".
After a day of trying, 
I finally shot a robin.

Holding the robin in my hand,
I realized it would never sing again,
That robin could not care for its babys anymore,
I could only drop it on the ground
Watch it turn to dust.

At 18 I became a soldier.
I learned dozens of ways
To kill man and beast.
I stared through a scope
Across a fence
At another man.
I had no hate
But I was from Seattle
And he Vladivostok.
If only he moved wrong
Or too fast.
I would have killed him
Taken away his unborn babies
Made his mother touch his dust.

My friend Jack was shot,
By a drug dealer he had crossed.
A tent revival meeting
Had given salvation.
But this found morality
Did not sit well
With co-conspirators.
Jack was found floating
Face down in the river,
Like my robin.
He had no babies.
He became dust,
In a far away land.

Years later
I raised my own
Chickens and rabbits.
I killed them each
With an axe.
Every bit used.
They still died.
They still had no more babies.
They still turned to dust
after eating them
and pooping them into the ground.

The power of death brings 

An awesome responsibility.

Most people never mature 

To be allowed such power.

Too many fools 

will kill because they can,

Never understanding 

that singing and babies 

Turn to dust with a flick of their finger.