Poem: Those Who Lived


Those Who Lived

And in the nights after the outcry,
after the news has moved on
and the names forgotten, lost in the next atrocity,
the other victims will be left alone
in their homes,
their wounds not of blood but soul,
alone to remember,
to cry,
to curse those who bred the anger that left them wounded
and mostly forgotten,
to seek forgiveness for living still,
afraid to sleep,
for dreams is where the horror still lives.
They are left to survive,
their places of worship now a nightmare,
wondering where now will they seek the peace of God,
where now will they find peace,
wondering why,
wondering how it is that all this horror
will disappear for everyone but them,
wondering when this monolith of hate will cease
and when this monolith of pain and loss will cease,
knowing for them, the answer is never,
wondering how, for too many, the answer is in a day or five,
our attention, like children in the circus
waiting for the next act.

About this poem

Think about it. There have been so many hate crimes in the past two years, that we can’t absorb them all. We live in perpetual pain and outrage. And the ones who are technically unwounded are left to sort out their invisible wounds. For them each death is the only one.



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