When all is said and done,
for what will we have fought?
When we have nothing left to give,
what will we have bought?
There’s a stigma on pain,
but I’m willing to bear it.
No one sees who else is suffering,
but I’m willing to share it.
Yes, the world keeps turning
while lives are lost.
We pray for a new beginning,
but what is the cost?
We can’t undo the beatings,
and we can’t ignore the scars,
but we can learn from these wounds;
death is not written among the stars.
There is a place where a flower grows
for every gun that we raise,
but you dare not see it
through the smoke and haze
of your own words, clouding the sky
and darkening your neighbor’s soul
with the hate you create, thinking
this young boy is not worth the toll.
Your fence might be higher
but one child’s mind is mightier
than Thor and his hammer.
There is nothing to be done when
the thunder roars in the distance.
No, no precaution need concern you
until it is pounding your door with insistence.
You arrive too late to the drowning
of your country, shell-shocked
you question how this was missed,
how every door around is locked
from the inside,
leaving you to wander and wonder
around the muck of what could have
been the world you couldn’t be bothered to ponder.
It went to the fishes,
where it was safer.