Feast like no other: Part 1

Stuck at the intersection
where grief and blindness intersect
like no other, there lies a man.
Bloody, broken, hopes in pieces.
Dangling keys, motor still running,
the birds flying overhead in circles
hoping to get a quick meal.

fires, stores in fire.
         Riots
multiple gunshots.

This city has gone mad,
        but at the intersection
you notice he is still breathing,
there, you notice he has something to say:

"I will not die, I will not.
My words may not be heard again but
the definition of them will. I call you to pray for
the people to stay and stay put.
I call to pray for you,
for I am not going to die."

With little importance the feast
commences; feathers flying like moon whispers
in my ear:
    "At the intersection, a feast like no other molds you!"
It takes you.
Becomes you.
                         "Can't I see this story?"
no you may not, it's not done yet.
                         "but isn't it a little too dark for our youth?"
Our youth has nothing to worry about.
                         We have. Guns.

"All hail the glorious seeds of infamous delusion!
I call on you to pray, fill the streets with rivers of crimson and leave the emotion at the door."

Smells like gunpowder.
Smells like fear.
Smells like over-cooked steak
and messy, scattered bread crumbs.
Thumbs not ready to leave the grip,
My essence over-flowing ,
gone beyond the horizon of
what knowledge is capable.

                     A feast of words commences.