Her picture sets, upon my dresser.
I can't look long, for my eyes overflow.
I see Mom's mask, I know there's love there
but somehow the pain it never showed.
I never knew the man she called "Dad".
Word was he died, from some strange accident.
But in Mom's last days, she said they'd argued -
and that fight and that bottle were his last.
WE never knew, the weight of guilt she carried
along with the armor of denial -
Mixed with the gin and the pills and such sadness
From fighting her personal war.
I read the papers - I see the obits,
another young life lost "unexpectedly at home"
And so all alone.
Where is our outrage , what are we doing?
We're not even touching the sources of pain.
Where are our hearts? Our neighbors are dying
all we do is deny and blame.
The settings change, the anguish doesn't
causes are many, complex beyond one stance.
To move the needle, we need conviction -
all our minds and resources not some trance.
Where is our outrage, what are we doing?
If this were a war, we'd give it our best.
We'd throw all our money, our best talents, spend our futures
no compromise, no rest.
I read the papers, I see the obits.
another young life - lost unexpectedly at home......
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