Mercifully it was over fast.
They didn’t suffer, we’re told.
It must have seemed a dream to them
…a very bad dream.
What is the sound of a nation’s heartache…
Of innocent children mowed down at story time?
This sound we can not bear to hear.
The bigger angels— women all—
Jumping into the line of fire
to save the little ones—
Just being that big, that huge.
We grieve them too, but differently.
We nod in understanding.
They died heroes.
That makes sense.
But dewey eyed six and seven year olds
Excited for Christmas vacation—
Tender flesh & bone splayed to bits
In this fusillade of rage.
And what of the shooter?
This tortured soul
Killing the childhood he likely never had.
His gun loving, high strung mother
Taking him, her obviously disturbed son,
To the shooting range again and again
For fun?
Making sure he knew too well
How to use these grim toys of mayhem.
Where was his father?
Where was the “village”
every hurting family needs?
Where were the concerned eyes, ears, hearts
…observing so much distress,
Reaching out to lend a hand.
Where are the politicians and populace
standing up to the gun lobby?
What is the sound of a nation’s fury?
