Happy is the king
who keeps
the rivers running red
without ever getting
blood on his hands

How lucky is the gun
that never has to feel
the pulse of the blood
that it spills

how lucky is the gun
that thunders so loud
it never has to hear
the screams  of the futures
it steals away

how lucky is the gun
to know no guilt or sin
that is left behind
in the gunpowder
that now stains our hands

Violence waits in the cold barrel of a gun
foaming at the mouth
waiting to erupt in a flash of anger
to pierce the unexpecting rhythm
of a heartbeat

too young to know
any of the languages of death
that will soon be spelled out
in the blood flowing from the holes
that bullets will bite out of its flesh

someone’s child smile will fade
as a mothers tears
will water a garden of grief
whose flowers will never go out of bloom

and in the silence of our complicity
we will pretend there is nothing we can do
but wait for the metal of the barrel to cool
as the violence continues to grow
as we quietly wait for the next eruption

she turns black thread
into silk verse
and writes poetry
with every sway of her hips
and the words linger
in the movement of a dream
and even the moon
can’t wear the night
as beautifully
as she wears that dress

What good are we
in flesh and bone
when we ignore
the wisdom of the songs
flowing in the blood
beating from our hearts

what good are we
in flesh and bone
when we walk
through troubled times
as nothing more than ghosts