The Design of War

You built this machine,

tightened every screw.

You polished the barrel 

until it could see itself reflected. 

You fed it a steady diet:

bullets, bodies, silence. 

The system hummed, 

precise as a clock, indifferent as steel. 

The chamber never sleeps. 

The magazine never empties for long. 

The trigger waits for the faintest pressure,

a twitch, a slip, a choice. 

You called it protection. 

You called it heritage. 

You swore it was necessary. 

But the machine does not care, 

does not remember your reasons. 

It only remembers the blood. 

When the muzzle turns on you, 

when the percussion rattles your chest

like a locked door breaking open, 

when the heat of the barrel 

brands itself into your ribs, 

You will understand what your hands created. 

There is no silencer for this,

no muffler for the wail of mothers 

stripped raw in classrooms, in churches. 

Every casing tells its story. 

Every magazine feeds on names 

too small to fill a coffin. 

You sustained the system. 

You armed it with faith,

dressed it in law. 

Still it eats, and still it grows, 

and still it waits for you. 

Because the machine you built does not stop. 

It does not choose. 

It only calculates, executes, and erases. 

And when it comes for you,

there will be no words left, 

only the echo of your own design 

ringing louder than God.