to the sound of the guns and the sirens and the screams
i look upon you and ask that you don't hear my words
with all my heart and soul i feel the tattered clothes
hanging on your frail frame like an innocent man dangling
over a retractable floorboard

marching through the forest and then the town and through streets
paved with the blood of the children of the downtrodden
mothers cry out for the one true savior of their grief
the creator of all things holy and good and unmistakable
hears the chaos with a cool grin

it is he who witnesses the wrongdoings of beasts
as well as the good-natured and even-tempered
the wrongs that are righted by the hands of demons
and the atrocities that can be seen in the palms of saints