Sometimes only a poet can touch the truth.
No, it was not a dream.
We wake on bitter knees
playing 52 card pick-up.
Of the things that befall us
this one pierces deeper for
lost are the least of these.
The killing of children is
the killing of everything.
Tomorrow’s temptation will
be strong – to profess creeds
with uncrossed fingers.
Today we walk in shadows
of faith, that is, in doubt.
Suffer the little children.
They are going to be buried
for a long, long time.
Esse Diem 