Jill Stockinger
Hurting
Broken bodies, broken hope.
Counting lost lives.
We become stronger
in the broken places?
I think not. Just more lies
we tell ourselves, pretending
things will get better.
They do not.
I hold a litany of lies, printed
and parroted through the years
to help each generation carry on.
I try to read a solemn prayer
in front of grieving families.
The burden of loss they carry
is breaking them.
We have shed enough tears
to fill an ocean and we keep
praising a distant God,
but the slaughter never ends.
I will praise Him no longer.
Why should I? It makes
no difference to me or Him.