While you pen in ink

I am writing this down in blood

dipping my quill in life spent

that’s still steamy

from the day’s killing

I am not a writer of fiction

these words are fact

I write what I see

a building full of people

the doors are chained from the outside

the henchmen smile

they love the sound of terror

gasoline and fire such a beautiful sight

one of the black garbed men taunts

flinging the red tongues

the flames lick higher and higher

extinguishing life, hope, dreams

the joke is on you

with each life you dispel

the darkness on the outside

claims what was good on the inside

the wraith will have no home

nothing to claim

 flames will consume  his soul

…And we just sit back while innocent people who live life quietly are being targeted losing their homes, herded like cattle  and killed.