On my block,
Warriors come out to play when the night is full of terror. Tears of the loved ones provide rain for the cloudy weather. Those who survive to make it home were the most clever. Or more ruthless and tootless and unable to bite down morals. One death easily becomes plural. Blood murals on concretes. Unknown artists, witnesses don’t snitch and don’t speak. No rules to this game these warriors play.
I wish this didn’t happen on my block every other day.