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Playing with the Grind A nation of aggression wants my gun. They've killed twenty sweet children, Scores more with nerd guided drones The same day, but then they Took no look in those flowers of faces Smudging their innocence to leave Pools incandescent to black light. It snowed today, mud spattered snow, The crunch of ice sounding my part In an Act III of tragic remembrance. (weeping is allowed.) When did truth become so dire?, No one would wear it, would look Deeper, beyond the easy, beyond the fed? So we burn candles, lay wreaths, solemn Lain toys, acquitting ourselves But unanswered questions and media rebuke for asking them. Timing and and self-serving measure And few to see how these times are shaped by the unholiest of sacrifice |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2012-12-29 14:36:41
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
The frist stanza for me says it all. Yes we loss those to young but it also happens in other countries by drones that have no heart to think with, no chance of changing its mind. No massive media coverage for the losses of children of another language. I have read many poems written on matter however yours is has clear as a magifiying glass. Thank you