As each young man dies, the land that bore him cries…

And the sounds of warning become familiar,
Flashing lights bring fear to the dark night,
And screams take place the prayer that should be recited.
The cut.
The puncture rips away the flesh, the bone, the spirit.
… Rest – until judgment – to be here in a second, a flash.
Wells pour over and ground never fills.
The wrong paths, un-forgiveness, rage – void of love and revenge wraps its determined finger around the trigger.
At long last the morgues are happy and a community stricken with grief.
© Alta Bodden-Solomon, 20 September 2011

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