Why do we stand and watch as men beat others down? Noisy machines mark all of our lives As our children are trained to be assassins By witnessing this appetite for battle. Why do we then scream so loud after the deed is done? It only brings about more watching, More noise to capture our slope toward death And the itch of transporting an untold grief. Why do we march in formations with a mournful cadence? Our soundtrack has a most cheerful rhythm Written on the dangling air of its lessons Designed for everyone's viewing pleasure. Why allow ourselves to imagine we’re anything more? Each of us are obliged to follow along, Give credence to the wretched course And wait for the scene to be our own. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)