Poem for the week

Through my dystopian lens
I see guns and crimson cries
that don’t make sense

for laws that have been shorn
in the name of the dead
and unborn

How many must fall
in a hail of i and we, de-
humanized faults

in hearts and songs
left unsung
in sun kissed faces
no longer young

Footnote: This poem was written as my contribution to the Writer’s Digest Poetic Asides blog. How hauntingly sad that the prompt for this week — gripe — was posted not long before the horror that unfolded on live t.v.

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