a poem in my pocket

Forty years of young blood

flows from unseen innocents

screams of pain silenced

by violent acts in desecrated sanctuaries.

Forty years of living lies

mothers’ nurture and  fathers’ love denied

beating human hearts betrayed

healers’ hippocratic oaths broken.

Forty years of injustice

how long is time enough?

america grows callous and cold

we all die a little inside.