Of Matters

Hear this, the thespian simmer of sultry ire

The performative moan of collective desire

As it bubbles and leaks through June-bound air

Through the summer city’s filthy glare.

Count them, as they march by here,

Their madness painted pale with fear

The bloodied banners snapping dry

The violent colors that stain your eyes.

Ask not, why, for whom they fight

If you would dare discount their plight

Once seen will allow you rest no more

Till with same wounds, you burn and sore.

See here, the open wombs of those

For whom the thorns outgrew the rose

The stones they gather from their hair

The bullets that their children share.

Remember now, what you have seen

The moribund branches, the fading green

Remember these bodies bound and black

Look to your hands, the spool is slack.