They ask the boy not to wipe his face
so all can see the blood and gunpowder.
Does he whine or protest? He does not.
Does he cry for his mother? He does not.
He goes along with everything they ask
because, let’s face it, he is dead inside
or if not dead, then an automaton,
a bloody five-year-old automaton.
He’s a boy that should be in the street
with a ball, and if you threw one at his feet
and told him he had to play, he likely might –
with the same blank eyes that admit no light.
We are people that should be on the street
and some may be, but most are in their seat
sure as they can be it will come out right –
there are always others to carry the fight.
We gaze from behind the polished lens
and clearly see the blood and gunpowder.
Do we whine or protest? Not really.
Do we cry to our gods? Not sincerely.
We go along with everything that’s done
because, let’s face it, we are dead inside,
or if not dead, then just plain bloody beat.
Pass me the remote – the rout’s complete.