"Breathe,"
They call to me.
"Stay calm."
They whisper softly.
I can hear their tears
As they say,
"Remember to pray."
And we should be angry.
We shouldn't be offering our sympathy
To the one that stole,
To the one that offered up his soul
For the taste of iron and gunpowder
For the taste of blood,
For the sake of leaving innocents
Six feet under tear-stained mud.
It isn't our weapons.
No, with the right morals and the right lessons,
It wouldn't be a problem.
It wasn't mental illness.
Trust me, please,
I know.
This is more than my business.
I know about trauma, I know about pain.
I know how it feels to have a curse become your name.
But we all have a choice,
We all make that decision,
For whether it will be our light or our dark that we choose to imprison.
He chose to use his pain,
To blend with his hatred.
He became his own darkness,
And that can never be forgiven.