Death Begs No.
A palm is put up, that no pity could make it through
“How can you console her knowing death is afraid of you?”
I did not compose these words, yet they are mine
Uttered in a dream, one echoing line
Spoken by Death herself, while she holds a girl’s hand
She looks only twelve, and the child smaller stands
An audience watches, a statement, a show
To a pit at the bottom the children all go
The sand does not sort them by age or by name
They fall, listless, down, to be buried the same
Death never asked us for these bodies, so small
What she asks is a question, overworked and appalled
“I am but a reaper, a guideman, a door
What terrors are you who keep sending me more?”
So her palm is an army that will not make way for you
“How can you console her knowing Death is afraid of you?”
How can we console her, us watching the news
With our guns in the closet we’ve never had to use?
It was not our bullets that broke through her chest
But we fought for the weapon that laid her to rest
How can you console her, you preachers who pray
When you say that the young must retrieve those astray?
How can you tell a child, while wishing them well
That their weakness and fear sends their playmates to hell?
Were none of us sacred before we were grown?
Are none of them sacred now, not on their own?
Is innocence meaningless, the perfect white page
That we write on and fight on, turn black as our rage?
Are they pawns? Are they dough? To be molded and used,
Or abused, until like us they grow? Death begs no.