I watched the smoke rise
in the distance,
a common sight these days.
The familiar hum
flowing in my ears,
as we continued to make our way.
"This is not me," I told myself,
for fear that I might conform.
Scanning across this wasteland,
sand now charred and worn.

A million miles away from home;
lightyears away from me.
I'd gone inside a killer's mind,
so the hunter won't get me.
His work unskilled,
his hands untrained,
but the results are still the same.
By day he wears a friendly smile,
by night the assassin's frown.

We all watch the trails
that lead to death,
then take a careful aim.
In the killer's mind
this is fun,
to the hunter it's a game.
No ideals,
no profit,
no philosophy;
it's just the way it's done.

In the coming years,
we'll tell our stories
to the sons we don't yet know.
The things we saw,
of what we did,
so much as we can convey.
But those are the days
when we can return
to the people we really are,
and rid ourselves of the
way we were;
in the killer's mind.