When I think of the families torn up, leaving their trust at the gates of horror, unable to find the pathway from loss, when I think of that unbearable defeat, that howling ache, no words can mend, no amount of joy-filled photos puts right. Violent fury is the scrape of the serpent and lends no favors upon the abused. Serenity, if not within reach for the whole world, might nod a favor upon a small portion, smiles letting go their fissured frame, laughter feeling safe again. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)