Stones Of Death Poem by Naveed Akram

I gather the stones of death,
My options are few and a breath;
This I design with my hands
And the feet may be from badlands.

The stones I picked deceived me,
Their large amount was ivory;
I wanted a little pebble or parable
To consist of the wisdom not horrible.

The horror I concerned myself with
Was loved by demons and the gunsmith;
Shooting carried disorder like stones,
Pebbles called bullets fired at bones.