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A sledge hammer driven down

–with force of unmatched rage.

Wielded as though to lay asunder

–the damage too vast to gauge.

A violent winter gust blowing

–with tension born of miles past.

Rushing as though urgently drawn

–crushing what was meant to last.

A wretched scream drawn on death

–with shocking disbelief now revealing.

Deafening as gunshot at close range

–destroying what the soul was feeling.

A pleading cry for peace unfounded

–with such sorrow it refuses to rest.

Awakening from already restless sleep

–counting the losses I’ve come to detest.

Karen Quinn 2003 rev 2013


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