from the collected writings of Phileas the Lesser
Remember each number is someone’s mother, son,
father, daughter, aunt, uncle and, it may be anyone.
Rich or poor, special on either end of the spectrum,
you can be shot by a gun, dove, hawk, smart, dumb.
In or from an ivory tower its fiery wrath descends
from a young hand, an old hand, enemy or friend.
Whether from a single shot or extended magazine,
no matter, you’ll still be dead; know what I mean?
You will cease to live, but you won’t cease to matter
in the tears, pain and loss, in lives which will shatter.
And some will still say it is just some stupid number.
But not those whose loved-ones will forever slumber.
Slumber rhymes, but those killed, will only be dead.
Whether murder, drive-by, straight shot to the head,
innocent bystander, target, soldier, your own hand,
forlorn tramp or hero; will they strike up the band?
Suicide, accident, murder, names that deny people.
human lives lost while hunting, shot from a steeple,
murdered by maniacs, hermit’s dreams to decimate.
They might well be us, as we share the same plate.
Can you wonder, I think the world is quite insane?
I, another inmate, one who would see sanity again.
And, I know, all weapons will not vanish overnight;
paranoia says we will save them for a random fight.
All guns can kill us, yet some are meant for daily use.
A person-to-person call for which there is no excuse.
So let us not be blinded by numbers, meant to shock;
each number human and, you and I stand in the dock.
Peace is Purpose, Nonviolence is Strength, Diversity is Unity, Empathy is Empowerment
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