The Big Empty

There’s something about

the crashing chemical death of Syrian children,

thunderous ocean waves at midnight Tuesday morning,

nighttime whispers in the hush of passionate kisses,

the final organ dirge at an old man’s funeral picnic,

there’s something about it that carries me to the big empty.

There’s something about a big man screaming war

with blue lips of savagery stuck to his pasty face in December.

The boys with hair greased and girls dressed in first grade leggings

watch as their friends frown at a friendship gone.

Yes there’s something about it that carries me to the big empty.

The rotting of a tree can be heard on a dead silent night.

The lady in the bay is sinking, depraved men laughing

as coins jingle in poorly pressed pockets.

Mother Earth forlornly cries at overflowing oceans

knowing we the people will soon fall into the big empty.

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