~ Incapacitating Cultural Experience, Imperfect Character Expires ~

A cell is the unit of life,

a cell can be filled with fancy numbers in excel’s accounting,

but we can’t account for the strife,

in children dying and their numbers mounting.

Seven hundred fifty seven precious children’s lives,

waiting in hell to get to freedom or heaven,

if this lesson lived isn’t survived.

So we will be bound and gagged,

to represent the deadline lagged,

ninety four minutes freshly tagged,

so that another little body isn’t bagged.

She may not have even been in a cell at the time.

But the hell she could never tell before the cell,

plus the well of memories from the cell,

well, it was just too much.

The towel thrown in, the wrung bell and such.

We want to s/cell everything in this country,

with a ‘c’ and a ‘s’,

the same things we’ve always tossed

at this uncontrollable mess.

Two of the three in our

Stars and Stripes trinity;

the third and missing is death.

All hail the almighty dollar,

and if it can’t be bought, fought,

bombed, or rom~combed,

then it should be dropped and locked up

on the spot, because it might keep

me or the powers that be

from getting a lot, when the getting is good,

and hot.

This girl. This child. This image bearer of God.

This world, not so meek and mild,

wild and bright-eyed,

laughs at the fractures in our bod.

This world sees our gangs and their struggles for power,

It sees our governments and their perpetual shifts,

it sees the heart of man ready, willing, and able to devour,

but struggling to leave its youth a pathway to the truth,

or good and sustainable gifts.

This world sees us strain to uplift,

but tear down without breaking stride.

It sees our extreme emotions shift,

and the perpetual waves signifying white pride.

This world aims to see where we should aim,

As Brendan C. says, the opposite of a gun

is wherever you point it,

I cannot tell you her first, middle, or last name,

or that of a special advocate who was appointed.

The headline came and went leaving us spent looking to blame,

whoever for the simple now being disjointed.

It’s as if we’re waiting in line to sub in to this wicked game,

while continuously weeping, hoping to be anointed.

Mothers down on their knees in the streets,

no shoes on their feet, feeling incomplete,

crying out to the author of all life above.

The answer, so simple and sweet,

in today’s world, an astounding feat,

the answer my friends, is to love.

.

.

.

.

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About SIDEWAYS EIGHT

Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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