Numbered markers on spikes blending into mist
Hugging low over damp ground,
On a hill from a B movie where teenagers
Meet deaths, gruesomely contrived,
By escaped lunatics or crazed homeschoolers.
But this is no five buck picture show,
The feeling isn’t dread, but a strange peace.
Not for me, no, instead for them,
The victims of enlightened compassion.
In the shadow of grey photos
Are the tattoos and burnt out ovens,
The barracks are museums,
To deny the denier with scorned laughter.
We feel righteous anger
And a satisfying sense of superiority.
But here behind prefabricated exurbs,
Past the promethean reach of city lights
There are no names,
No families to cry or shout never forget,
Because to forget was the point.
We had our own solution to the problem.
Now the buildings are boarded,
Others cater cocktail parties,
And the pasture; a golf course.
The graves are on a side road
Off a county artery leading from a parkway,
Behind a wall of trees and a chain.
All I could think of is what it will be like
When the trumpet finally sounds
And the weak are made strong and wise,
When beauty conquers decay,
When the abandoned and forgotten
Children will inherit the entire earth.
No comments:
Post a Comment