As Bullets Fly

And As Bullets Fly On this land sun often shines, in afternoons there is between, deep shadows and light a multi, hued, enchanting greenness it is as day and night seek ownership of the earth. On dull days nature loses its colour and there is no strife between light and dark, only gloom, if that is a colour. I drive home in a tunnel of grief moving through doom, and blue news, I have just heard of a shooting in a school in USA, 30 people dead. This cursed second revision. On the front window, tears from parents who have lost their children. I whisper, when will it ever stop? As I lament my old age, I feel useless, after all I have lived through the seasons of years; the youngsters murdered shall never grew to get old.