12 o' clock

The clock strikes 12 on another day

The white flag with streaking Blood red lines

And miniature stars

Waves obliviously in the background

Ambulances take refuge under the flag-

dragging out endless corpses of those we sought to protect

Their blood leaving little red streaks 

On the vast school yard



Inside there is useless chaos

Of children 

Scarred from the rain of bullets

That struck the room

At 12 that day


The world is silent- or so it appears.

It feigns horror. It relishes in the fairy tale 

of the scared children, and the big bad wolf. 

Sealing their fate. Ignoring their screams. 

The world knows best. When the clock struck 12, it was nothing special.

Freezing- for just a moment- under the glare of an almighty God


They go their own way. 


The gun nuts and patriots

silently send support

to the beautiful AR-15

that took the lives

of those school kids under

the white flag with the Blood red lines


Though not in public-

that would be quite weird

instead, in their secret shrine

can they pray to the god of war

and only hope for a similar future

to anoint 

the good ol’ 

U S of A


The world is silent- or so it appears

It feigns horror. It relishes in the fairytale

of bereaved mothers-

of grieving fathers-

of crying sisters-

of dying brothers


For in this fairytale, there is a schoolyard

with school kids scattering about

with waiting ambulances,

skin marked by the brand 

of the gun 

that paid them a visit

Their identities lost


And up above

in the brilliant blue sky 

waves that ominous flag

sending its guidance down below

to the people


by its Blood red lines.

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This poem is about: 
Our world


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