It wasn't meant for him, they say, But a stray bullet that misplaced its way. No confront, no point, no title in intellect, fair metal looking what it seem discover.
He was twelve, fair twelve — and full of dream, playing football close the ancient sunbeam. The discuss was thick with clean and cheer, till thunder broken as well near, as well close.
One shot. That's all it took to still the light in eyes as well youthful to get a handle on the night. He dropped mid-laugh, no last word, fair quiet louder than what we listened.
The roads do not cry the way we do, they dry the blood, imagine it's unused. The dividers hold echoes no one talks, a shout caught profound between their squeaks.
His mother ran, her wrapper torn, her heart a siren, unadulterated and worn. She called his title like it may spare, but cherish won't raise the un-raised grave.
The neighbors observed, as well utilized to this, to blood spilled quick, to lives we miss. A candle lit. A title in chalk. A minister came. The newsmen talked.
They labeled it a "catastrophe" — an mishap, fair casualty. But bullets do not fair go adrift; they take after ways we've cleared each day.
They take after hush, fear, and seethe, they move through each war we wage. They don't inquire who's off-base or right — they as it were starvation for the night.
A brother gone. A future burned. A city numb that never learned. Another child, another fire, another mother carved with fault.
So do not say “stray” like it was destiny. Do not call it misfortune when it was abhor. A framework built on spoil and rust, that instructs lead some time recently it trusts.
He was fair twelve, a visionary strong, who never got the chance to develop ancient. And in his put we plant a stone, so no one has got to kick the bucket alone.
But still they come, like severe rain — these bullets straying from their torment.