Columbine

It is not the young men Distard and disconnect The chronicler's memory dissect But some more corporate And deeper in the grain As roots of more coming pain. Cutting through debris Of postmortem reactions To hear the high pitch tremors Of blood chilling screams Splashing from hopeless lungs Into spatters of blood Collecting in the gruesome caricatures Littered upon the floor I come face to face with the dread Of why ... will this happen again? For who are we What have become that we do not want to be And do not know we are How are we so inflated To a drivel Of pursuit In the large ambiguity of desire? And children with no moral compass Denied a feast of value In their learning Finds pleasure in the fast Of belonging. Only a instinct hoard us together We are broken In the hard solitude Of technological isolation That entertains Only an individuality. I have seen the material dungeon Sense and sensibility rotting in chain Hear the children crying In the selfish wilderness And the wasteland Answers Columbine, Columbine.