Piece for the walkout

 

In all this damnass cold

You and I create,

Bicker, conclude, articulate.

In all this damnass cold

Quickened and clubbed by

The immediacy of it all

 

Generations before us had names-

Figures, holding titles, victims

To march with side by side

We have martyrs in

miniature coffins draped with

Dirty american flags, and

Little backpacks scattered in our streets.

 

In this damnass cold

There can be no more talk

No more conclusion, discourse

Now we wait.

In this damnass cold we

Wait for those children to come home.

Prayers, you and I know, are not insurance,

Faith is not federally regulated.

 

We must refuse

We will walk and

We won’t speak until

Our silence is heard,

Every one of us adding to the dissonance.

All we can hope for is an open ear.