From the slate roof of the world, raindrops are dripping

From the slate roof of the world, raindrops are dripping Right onto the heads of the streams of faceless passers-by. The sky's drawing paper, soaked through by a leader's weeping, Fell down the collars, troubling necks till they shiver. This water — thousands of souls in tears. Their bitter weeping will drown the endless feuds. Down stony jaws the crusted ink will smear, Baring to all the grin of a faceless brood. How many pardons has this world been given? How many were earned, and how many bought on installments? Debts must be paid — the shooting gallery opens. Gone are the ones who'd put a bold full stop. A red dot, jumping — now the heart, now the brow. All in the crosshairs. Each one's a hunter with years. The carpenter, gifted by God, makes coffin after coffin now. Whoever misses on purpose — forgiven, it appears. It hurts to look at the walking dead around. It's hard to try to be the scope on God's sniper rifle. Tears flow down onto the pastures of the proud So they might wash off a little of the eternal wrath.