Well worth it

And this is how it goes
That which happens to one is always most relevant
It was marrow cold
and once imprisoned into the body,
nothing could release it.

There was no fury, only
a dull anger of sorts.
Something in the hand
held, something in the body released.

Never have two been any less
or any more straight lines that collide sometimes
and let go.

There was a thump and
the silent blast of breath,
smog of a dirty weapon
in the cold.

Always it has been something
small that starts a war,

A shame so rooted that it grows into voiced pride.

It was blood cold
and the shoes well worth it.
Dawn has always been blind to violence and naive,
covering dead bodies with gold.