The sounds we hear,
are the noises we make.
Of doors slamming shut,
Of lights put out,
Of the flesh being torn from us.
Tranquility has no place left to it.
We have lost the notes
of the song that starts the day.
We replace it all
with the expressions of the lost.
More sirens and church bells.
The beckoning to our angels.
The laments to the indifferent clouds.
Can we bear to
see ourselves yet again, in
all that's been vanished?
Who among us has words
to explain the slaughter
of the babies of strangers?
Who are these people
we claim to not know,
But us?
Newtown by Daniel Thomas Moran | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
