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