By Christopher Kryzan
Death stalks in many forms sometimes cloaked in black, sickle in hand sometimes driving a pickup truck. Quick pickup in a bar sometimes flirtatious smile, promise of more sometimes a ruse, sheep's clothing. Hatred smolders in their minds sometimes a mirror'd glance, frightening reflection sometimes a gun blow, hammer to the head. Warning sign on a fence sometimes a scarecrow, nothing more sometimes more. Oh, child, you could have been mine Pray that never be so, oh lord, that it never be so. I dream that it's nothing more, a dream again But, oh lord, that ain't to be so, it ain't never to be so. Stop. The hate. The lies. Everything. Oh, child, you were taken too soon. Why are they still here? My heart. Hurts. Cries out and screams. Has been torn from the very fabric of my being. Oh, child, you were ours. We're all still here, you're not. Reason eludes in my mind sometimes God's voice, nothing more sometimes hope.