That children are the virus
by which it spreads, is the irony, that hatred
seeping creeps into the dreams while sleeping
doesn’t allow us to ever truly wake.
It was just another dream that kept them
bound, as they watched their futures bake.
We do, we allow it, but can we speak
there was a fire burning a body (as another midnight
wrapped its presents and laughing
set them under the tree) and a spirit leaving.
War was in the words that they were speaking
there were no bombs until a blind man decided,
lied it into being. But as an ancient cave illustrates
each imaginal night, moves a hunter to that prey
within his reach, ideas leak, and liquid, run.
If we cannot contain that molten revolution
with its twisting vine upon the heart
each generation tasked to redefine the good
must carve some knowledge into choice
voice another generation into sight.

[painting by William Glackens]