This poem was previously published on my column on Feminine Collective.
Darkness has fallen. The winds, they blow strange.
The devils we know have all changed their names.
They have coloured their faces, these heathens without shame,
all pointing corrupt fingers, all deflecting the blame.
They kill our time breathing upon life’s precious things,
taking pleasure from bullets tearing butterfly wings.
One for the kid just trying to get home,
clutching rainbows of death and his girl on the phone.
A few for the women, the mothers not to be,
slaughtered for their choices in the land of the free.
Five for the heroes who laid down their lives
when a blue line was crossed in Dallas that night.
Another forty-nine blazed through the night skies,
carrying the pulse of one love on terrified cries.
In San Bernardino there was holiday cheer,
and then fourteen funerals to ring in the…
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