What a fickle thing
The touch of a friend
To be left- just a fling
Leads thoughts through the bends
Of life, and Death
No matter the love you may feel
No one will escape their last breath
We will all kneel
At the loss of love
The loss of life
There are no words from above
To console the strife
And yet- you cannot stay
on your knees
For there is no one left to hear
Your pleas
“Harris is a communist,” My grandfather protests.
“Better a communist than a felon,” My father shoots back.
There is a swirl of color that accompanies all things.
Every twist and turn, every fall and failure. All words spoken and sung, every smile or laugh.
To commit atrocities
In the name of love
Such monstrosities
Causes steps of
A cautioned hush
The presence of those returned
Warriors- gentle brush
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