Like Neruda,
tonight, I can write the saddest lines;
Write, for example--
Young woman, full of life,
Starting new chapter
In a place, once familiar,
Having her book,
Abruptly ended
by those
who did not know her story.
For example--
Eleven people,
on a night on the town,
whose lives
were irreparably altered
for no foreseeable reason
in the history of
unforeseeable reasons;
how,
a few good men,
charged with defending the country
where they ultimately lost their lives,
undefended;
and how,
cries of ‘enough!’
go unheeded,
like so many
unanswered prayers;
how deaf ears
and blind eyes
and closed mouths
describe
so many of us--
that if we ignore
long enough
the senselessness
going on around us,
it will go away.
But,
as commonly
as the sun rises
and sets,
innocent lives
will no longer be considered
innocent;
black lives
will continue
not to matter;
and those who should lead us,
will be passed over,
by circus clowns
and sideshow freaks
who continue to laugh at us,
while the nation burns.
© 2015 Joseph Powell
