A Poem

My heart is broken for the aggressors that never chose aggression, the fugitives that never imagined themselves without roots, the thinkers that have fallen silent as they’ve noted that to disagree is to invite violence.

My heart is broken for the death rattle filmed as the streets are painted crimson and cluttered with pieces of mothers’ souls.

Souls sent to God for judgment all the same; some for duty, others pride, but most tragic those sent of dispensability.

What does it mean to be called one or the other? Is it blood that determines darkness or light? Is it spoken word? Is it value or belief? Is it loyalty and if so, to whom or what?

Is it enough to know in one’s heart that the answer was given thousands of years ago, or must it be said, and what ears would it fall on if spoken? The answer is love, not hate.

When all of clarity is shrouded in the suffocating mist of emotion, when earth is cleansed by a darkening plague of fear, When small men stand on pedestals in the midst of turmoil and giants shrink into shadow to disappear,

Will we recognize the long slender fingers of the reaper when it stands our turn? Will we remember, love is life and death is hate?

My heart is aching for the upright animal lost in a flurry of destruction, grasping at the shards of meaning strewn about the earth.

So preoccupied is the massive collective with the answer that the question has not been considered.

Meaning is the falsity which hides the truth behind its veil. Focus not on interpretation but the words that be hidden in plain sight.

Answer hate with Love.

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