From what I see of life’s disgust;
The killings, rampant shooting sprees,
I’m sure that no one not agrees
There’s nothing ‘bout it free or just
To take of life, spray the horror;
To taunt and gloat of liberty,
Yet do harm to humanity;
Break through innocent’s very door,
Spill blood of those helpless and young.
To what point does this all lay waste?
For what does one gain from this haste?
Bodies piled through ages of wrong;
The legacy of massacres
Embedded in our flesh of palm.
We deny our blood reeks of them,
Yet we’re abhorred when it occurs.
Not new, no matter the numbers;
Nor time, place, or century.
To forget the past, we hurry.
Yet the gunman, still he lumbers
Through shadows of our denial.
We fight so for his given rights,
We’re blind to see the glaring lights;
Yet trust less of ourselves the while.

 

Cynthia Thornton Herrera is an adult education teacher and poet living in Spring, Texas.

Featured Image: Vietnam Memorial painting by Lee Teeter

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