Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.139.239.16
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Someone should write a 
poem, for all the dead and  
dying;
Of how inside their homes, 
the blood is red and drying. 
Of how night came upon 
them, with flames and 
desolation.
Of faces fraught with terror, 
and fear and resignation.
Someone should write the 
words, to comfort the 
bereaved
Who saw what knives and 
swords, had done. And 
those who grieve:
The ones without their 
parents, the friends who 
weep alone.
Who know the pain that 
settles and seeps into the 
bone.
Someone should write the 
story of all the dead and 
dying;
Some scribe should write it 
nicely, who is not bled as I 
am;
Some go-getter poet better 
who can get it done.
Someone should write this 
history, and if you are the 
one…
Tell them about the crying, 
tell any who will listen,
That there are people 
dying, and there are 
children missing.
They took young men’s 
lives, and infants from their 
mothers.
Ask if we should hope or 
seek deliverance from 
another.
Tell of the sons and 
daughters, murdered as 
they slept.
Tell of the slain and 
slaughtered, and elders 
who have wept.
Tell them the streets are 
bleeding, the gutters 
running red.
Tell them the people 
grieving have asked if God 
is dead.
Tell them of all the anguish, 
of drowning in its flood.
And speak it in their 
language of shit and piss 
and blood.
Of naked women taken, 
raped, and men they 
execute.
Of lying waiting, aching 
knowing that the next is 
you.
Tell them of dying 
nameless, in blood and 
excrement
And of surviving flames to 
perish in the next event.
Of how when the fires die, 
the stench of burning flesh
Rises to the sky, until the 
cycle turns afresh.
Tell them about the 
students, they ones they’ve 
been kidnapping.
And if they wonder why, 
explain what must be 
happening.
Tell them of homes 
abandoned, who see 
misfortune rising.
Repeat the names of all the 
dead until they memorize 
them.
A man is dust and ashes, a 
soul but breath and wind.
And life too quickly passes, 
with solace left unhinged.
So write of all the innocent, 
the victims of their plotting.
Call them: The Taken, or 
The Lost, but never The 
Forgotten.
Someone should write it all, 
because my words are 
bitter.
The pain to chronicle this, is 
more than I considered.
The skill it takes to craft it, 
is more than I have got.
Someone should write it all, 
for God knows I cannot.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required