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