Children under a table;
Unable…
To scream;
Unable…
To make sense–
Of what seems–
We do not care.
We cannot share in these tears,
Of murdered years,
Left on the table…
Unable.
Children, meant to sing out;
Instead,
Bullets ring out
With no warning.
In mourning
We march the dirge;
Where gun laws surge;
With only the urge
To let them lay.
Again…
We pray,
Pray…
But it won’t pray away.
Sun’s still rise;
But the promised wise,
Now lie gone.
There is no excuse
For this blasphemous ruse:
Painting portraits
Of what is;
When is, is us…
Throwing life ‘neath a bus;
For the sake of a throne;
A buried bone.
We are made to hear
Leaders condone:
They salute–
For they are the mentally ill–
Not the will
Of a people;
As they erect;
Select;
And neglect…
For the sake of a tombstone.
Sun’s still rise;
But the promised wise,
Now lie gone.
Top photo: Bigstock
