Sign of the Times
S o many tears are paid with precious blood,
I mbued with promise, chaste and innocent,
G one quickly with a brash and frantic flood,
N ot worthy of their hopes or grand intent.
O h, how can any mind with senses, rife,
F ind pathways to such twisted rationale ...
T o wholly disregard the worth of life,
H ot on the heels of infamous morale?
E ach time a senseless killing claims a soul,
T he questions start again of who's to blame,
I nside the brittle bones of hate's control,
M ore marrow, scalded by an ancient flame.
E mpires are built and crushed, as Time defines ...
S o sad, we always fail ... to read its signs.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Sign Of The Times" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Sponsor.
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