Serial Killing Spree
Gun shots popped.
Revelers dropped and bled.
Most ran.
The injured lay
on the trash-covered ground.
Some stayed and covered
the wounded or dead.
The shooter was found and shot.
Or maybe he turned the gun on himself.
But he comes back again,
the same rage in a different cell,
the same soul in a different skin.
The crime has not been solved.
Let’s call it what it is:
A serial killing spree.
Open wounds are re-shot
shattering nerves and floating debris—
a stronger blast hits the same spot.
We cannot heal.
We have no real security.
Is it time to say,
“Mountains, fall on us!
We don’t want to see anymore.”?
Or is this another isolated incident
in a neighbor’s back yard
that we can ignore?
Rita A. Simmonds
Early October, 2017
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2017
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