What is the weapon here?

This weaponized love of mine is old
older than spears made of spruce, older
than Blombos’ mid stone age teeth, older
than Ethiopia’s Omo bones,
yet it is well designed
to gain mental advantage.
It is
a blast carried out by a troubled citizen
a blast carried out by a disaffected veteran
a blast carried out by a religious fanatic
a blast carried out by an idealist
a blast carried out by a terrorist
a blast carried out by a martyr
It is
at the city centre, federal building
well aimed at life, albeit lost in life, and found in life,
mangled cars, campaign trucks, and shelter constructs. And
there begins the claim on the good in folks, the take down
as floor collapses on top of floor in a concrete rush.
This weaponized love of mine is old indeed, and it is
enough to make me scream and cry over life.
I see it reduced to ash, and as dust it floats by;
But, I confess, I know not how to take the weapon out
and a hundred years from now it will still be able to hurt.