I will not be writing
a gentle prayer today
The words pour forth
from the bloody ink of my pen
There is no song of comfort
adequate enough
to drown out the echoes
of dead children’s laughter
America is a stain
that cannot be scrubbed clean
There is no formula
for blackened souls
who walk amongst us
festering like a wound, infecting us all
America, we are rotting from within
and there is no cure for our disease
America, we are wounded
and wounding
Oh beautiful, for spacious skies
What love can you rain down for those of us
here on the ground?
Oh Holy one whose liminality surrounds us
How can you be everywhere
all at once
and nowhere
when we need you the most?
No, I will not be writing
a gentle prayer today
I am tired of praying to a silent God
I am tired of moving forward
when all I want to do
is stand in one place
and scream
I am tired of marching for change
when things only seem to get worse
Most days, I am just simply tired
We have gone on
when we should have stopped
and mourned
Flags should fly at half mast every day
There should be no such thing as
“business as usual”
What is it we are supposed to be
getting back to?
Childhood should be a time for magic
A time for bare feet in tall grasses,
for play and discovery
for being carefree
Instead, bullets have shattered
the land of make believe
while our smallest, most precious ones
are caught in
an eternal trauma loop
managing fears
they shouldn’t even
have to imagine
let alone experience
While we bear silent witness
helpless ships with no captains
unable to do what must be done
to save us all
