The clock strikes 12 on another day
The white flag with streaking Blood red lines
And miniature stars
Waves obliviously in the background
Ambulances take refuge under the flag-
dragging out endless corpses of those we sought to protect
Their blood leaving little red streaks
On the vast school yard


Inside there is useless chaos
Of children
Scarred from the rain of bullets
That struck the room
At 12 that day

The world is silent- or so it appears.
It feigns horror. It relishes in the fairy tale
of the scared children, and the big bad wolf.
Sealing their fate. Ignoring their screams.
The world knows best. When the clock struck 12, it was nothing special.
Freezing- for just a moment- under the glare of an almighty God
Then-
They go their own way.

The gun nuts and patriots
silently send support
to the beautiful AR-15
that took the lives
of those school kids
under
the white flag with the Blood red lines

Though not in public-
that would be quite weird
instead, in their secret shrine
can they pray to the god of war
and only hope for a similar future
to anoint
the good ol’
U S of A

The world is silent- or so it appears
It feigns horror. It relishes in the fairytale
of bereaved mothers-
of grieving fathers-
of crying sisters-
of dying brothers

For in this fairytale, there is a schoolyard
with school kids scattering about
with waiting ambulances,
skin marked by the brand
of the gun
that paid them a visit

Their identities lost
1…2….3….4
And up above
in the brilliant blue sky
waves that ominous flag
sending its guidance down below
to the people
Controlled
by its Blood red lines.