April 11, 2013

For the Murdered & Dead-Souled Children, a Poem.

When a thousand more children lay dead at your feet,
Bloodied and soul-torn, gunned down and beat,
Never allowed again to feel the summer’s heat . . .

Or the winter’s cool gain,
Will that be enough for you then?

When 500 mentally scared young men,
Charge swiftly into schools never to feel their own pain again . . .
Wielding murder weapons upon the scents of innocent babes,

Will you charge the halls of justice then?

When a hundred more seasons wilt and simmer before your eyes,
While you watch our youth mired in fear and demise,
As a generation mourns their youth before it is won . . .

Will you sing for their sorrows and for what is now gone?

I have watched my own children cry and laugh near my breast,
I have cried and felt ill when they smiled full at rest,
I have dreamt for their days to be joyous and long,
I have willed for their their smiles to always be strong.

But now I can’t cry anymore for their songs,
Now I wither and wander the nights all night long,
Now my eyes are closed shut, and never can see . . .

Because too many children never again here will be.

When I was a youth, so many springtimes ago,
I sprawled lightly in playtime and sweet highs and lows,
My days were bike-filled and my melodies sweet . . .

As I basked in the glow of youth’s innocent beat.

But today our young babes face the fear of their fate,
As daily killings and suicides grill every last gate,
They are fearful that any dreams will die young . . .

So they often don’t bother for songs to be sung.

A technical beast have invaded each child,
A fierce lonesome world has made them harsh-wild,
To compassionate voices, to feelings still true . . .

We have allowed our offspring to be mired in blue.

Whether bullied or raped by internet thieves,
Or coerced into thinking one’s heart has to leave—
Because nothing is valued and all is pure hate . . .

Because nothing is sacred and nothing is great.

I heard a sad story on the news just today,
About a young boy who just wanted to play—
But instead shot another preschooler quite dead . . .

This was the news, this tale of dread.

There was another about a girl who gave up,
Killing herself because life was too tough—
She hung herself after gang raped and scorned,

Now we’ll have to cry for her life too-young torn.

Be it bullets from guns used by depressed young boys,
Or beatings from peers who have lost all their joys,
Or throwaway kids because they feel in the way . . .

One way or another, we will all deadly pay.

It sounds awful to say it, but I haven’t much strife,
If my kids are killed by a gun or knife,
I just want them loved, I just want them here . . .

For each single moment, and for as long as I’m here.

We should fight for all kids, when we see them lost,
We must fight the hard battles, at each low and high cost,
Each child you see who is suffering and pained—

Could be yours tomorrow, with so much to gain . . .

If you only reach out and get into their heart,
Of their innocence lost, of their need “not to part”
If you only remember that you were young too . . .

Many years long ago, you too might have felt blue.

I have a dream that kids one day will see,
That their lives can be peaceful and wildly free,
Of killings and threats and hate and fear . . .

I have a dream that this day can be near.


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Ed: Brianna Bemel

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