More Poet's Place Poems

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There are too many guns across this land.
They echo through the streets and take our sons.
No law or prayer can make the killing stand.

The blaze of madness fires a thousand guns.
Each ghost that walks was once a child at play.
We mourn beneath the weight of endless tons.

You see it too, I know you do, they say.
The leaders speak, but only mouths appear.
The dead remain, while silence wins the day.

The talking heads lament, their voices drear.
Yet guns still roar, and blood still stains the floor.
The cycle spins, repeating year by year.

And still the guns demand a little more.