Literature
Astray
There’s nothing to say,
and yet,
I’ll repeat it once more.
Outside my window,
there’s a chalk outline
of a dead little boy.
Was he murdered by you,
or was it me?
Perhaps just a byproduct
of our demented society.
The bullets that sprayed
were never meant for this boy.
A single round went astray,
now, the boy is no more.
And they’ll put him to rest
with a few token tears,
Just another pointless excuse
for some ice-cold beers.
The silence that follows,
is heavy and sick,
A community torn apart,
by one wayward click.
The laughter that echoed,
through these streets
like children's songs.
Is hushed and stifled,
something is seriously wrong.
The games that were played,
in the warmth of the sun,
Are memories faded,
the joy is all done.
For each empty playground,
and each vacant lot,
Speaks volumes of the childhoods
that time has forgot.
We're left with the questions,
of why and the how this could be.
As we stand by the outline,
and make solemn pleas.
To change and to cherish,
each
