From the earnest, solemn delivery of promises to come
To the whispering slap of the bullet not seen from the gun
There are records strewn everywhere of what could have been changed,
To prevent the easily persuaded from becoming madmen deranged.
If words could speak louder and reverse the shape
Of the acceptance of the inevitable without escape
From the decimating power that comes from a gun
Then promises could be kept in the time that’s to come.
But promises are not the power that some do seek
Pledges to the impoverished are considered too weak.
It’s the blood of the poor that bind the barriers that divide
The gun sellers from the dead and the screams that are cried.
© 2019, Daniel Kemp All rights reserved