A small boy craves to live one more day
He knows not why his skin caves upon bones
Scratching windows he’s never known
He looks for the hand that will hold his
or at least wave his worries away
in the breeze that most of us carry so lightly
we’d never notice the power of five fingers
clenched into the fist that first shattered his dreams
This is what life means.
Suffering to the point of demise
that our eyes shine light birthed from
over-reaching death that begs us come home.
Yet home is where the heart is and my heart is here.
My heart is that of a small boy desperately seeking
answers the he might live one more day
to share the wisdom of an old man.
And I am an old man now having seen 30 years
and I know the boy of 8 who will not see 9
and I still don’t have answers to his questions as to why.
Why have we lost our humanity? Why does the boy
sit in the dirt and in the cold alone
tomorrow never finding his eyes
opening doors that we all might be fed?
Why does the table of our world seem to be short a few hundred million chairs and why am I the lucky one who has one? Why do I still have one?
And so the child looks for a hand to hold finding none
because every hand he finds already holds a gun
and the bearer of arms invites him
into family with one and only condition:
pull the trigger.