Hear this, the thespian simmer of sultry ire
The performative moan of collective desire
As it bubbles and leaks through June-bound air
Through the summer city’s filthy glare.
Count them, as they march by here,
Their madness painted pale with fear
The bloodied banners snapping dry
The violent colors that stain your eyes.
Ask not, why, for whom they fight
If you would dare discount their plight
Once seen will allow you rest no more
Till with same wounds, you burn and sore.
See here, the open wombs of those
For whom the thorns outgrew the rose
The stones they gather from their hair
The bullets that their children share.
Remember now, what you have seen
The moribund branches, the fading green
Remember these bodies bound and black
Look to your hands, the spool is slack.