Someone must rage

Put down that needle and thread.

You can not sew up the wound that your own bloody hands opened.

You cannot offer prayers of forgiveness with the rage of division in your voice.

Yet someone must rage; the victims are silent.

Tears become torrents, hands wrung red with anguish, beds are empty, children parentless; parents alone.

Someone must rage.

 

There is too much broken glass, too many church doors pock marked with fragments, to many seats at schools empty; too many black helmets, too many empty faces; a world sodden with sadness.

 

There are too many memorials dressed in bunches of plastic-wrapped flowers, too many days of remembrance; too many markers dedicated to the wars were are always fighting that become another roadside attraction served with fresh coffee and local pastry;

Too much glory praised for the wrong reasons.

Too much, too much. Our shoulders sag with weight.

 

And yet, numb you are in your own selfie haze;

Silent you are to the cries;

Drugged to the pain because it is not really yours though you acknowledge it with a sigh; behind virtual reality goggles you cannot smell the blood.

 

In a check list world one more prayer marked off will not stop the carnage.

In our world of one you cannot outrun the damage.

In our world of one, you cannot shake your sorrowful head enough times to root out the evil.

In our world of one, another sad face emoji will not stop your blame.

 

So, come, join.

Someone must rage.

Stand on a rooftop, stand on a street corner, stand on a hill top.

Gather. Ask why.

Leave behind your hateful leaders; for a moment disbelieve.

There is blame enough to share; none are innocent; silence and justification are complicit.

Too often each of us has said what I did you, you have done to me.

Strip away the self-righteousness.

Do not invent new pain; there is pain enough already.

 

Come stand in our shame, stand with bloody shoes.

Stand in the rain and call for all to be cleansed.

Stand and weep for the lost, wail for the forgiveness that will not come until

we acknowledge that we cannot sew up this wound until we drop the bloody knife that opened it.

Howl away the pain, scream in loneliness and despair, push and pull the anger until this incoherent sorrow becomes knowledge, till walls collapse and hearts are healed.

Rage till all that is wrong is vanquished, though the battle and its sorrow are immemorial.

 

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I am the author of the award-winning Frank Nagler Mystery series. "The Swamps of Jersey (2014); "A Game Called Dead" (2016) -- a Runner-Up in the 2016 Shelf Unbound Indie Author Contest; and "The Weight of Living" (2017) -- First Place winner for Mysteries in the Royal Dragonfly Book Awards Contest.
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