People Should Not

People shouldn't die. It's a disgrace,
obscene to wreck what you create like toys.
Tell the bastard when you meet him, face to face.

It's mud and savagery of little boys
outside the celestial bullpen where we race
to see who wins the prize for who destroys

with a swifter whelp from end to end of space,
like refined mosquitoes, an irritant that annoys
the back of Phlegethon burned under ice,

music of a silence spiced with outraged noise:
they should not die, once born - that is the disgrace:
an artist stabbing his canvas, writer bilking his cries,

musician drowning his instrument, beauty shattering her face,
breaking a world under a welkin open as joy.
It is not right. It is in bad taste.

Say it is not. Repeat it: it is not. It is lies.
People should not die. It is His disgrace.
Tell the bastard when you meet him, face to face.