Sunday, December 16, 2012


I don't need to go into detail about what happened on Friday.  We are all grieving over this horror, and this is my way of getting some of my emotions out.  It's poetry, probably bad poetry, but it's all I've got for today.

From podiums to pulpits
they will say that he was cursed,
this man who spilled
the blood of innocents,
he who has stripped
the very brightest
of the stars from the sky.

Yet it is the living
who are cursed,
the weight of the dead
borne heavy upon shoulders
stooped with grief. 

It is the living
their faces haggard with despair,
who are left to clear away
the now silent remains,
crushed dreams, promises unfulfilled.

It is the living who must
grit their teeth in anguish,
and 'move on',
their lives not-quite-back together,
eyes forever half-focused
on loved ones
who are no longer there.

It is the living
who are cursed
to grieve
to remember,
to treasure that which is lost,
what can never be again,
while the dead sleep on.


  1. I also went with poetry today. Ironic... rhyming and stanzas seem to be the only sense any one can make of it all.


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