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.
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