A battered head,
a bleeding brow,
washed in silence.
This is a prayer
for the victims
of ignorant violence.
You don't know when it started,
you began feeling half-hearted.
The peace within is broken,
you want speak but your choking.
And you can't let it go,
never be unspoken.
Often you're left in stitches,
yet your soul is worth untold riches.
A dusty street,
where the children meet
that have no alliance.
This is a prayer
for the sufferers
of ignorant violence.
One day they're safe, then they're not,
wars are not what we sought.
Explosions only leave what you believe,
while the helpless mothers grieve,
crying for help from God.
The angels aren't coming,
their sounds are leading to nothing.
This is a prayer
for the shattered vagabonds.
My grandfather was an old Okie thrown from his home who joined the military and became a front line engineer during the end of WW2 and continued to work in the middle east and Africa until he retired. From the day I knew him until the day he died, his fridge was stacked fuller than a supermarket. He said make sure everyone eats at the very least. It was the most important thing to him that everyone ate. He smacked one of my cousins upside the head one time for taking food away from a younger family member.
