For the victims of the Orlando Pulse Shootings
It’s a hundred degrees, but the air feels cold;
The devil hoarded all the heat to fuel his fire
Spitting out sparks of the spawn of satan,
Who masquerade ecclesiastical attire.
I tell my sobbing spirit that it will all be alright,
But it’s not and I fear it will never be
Because both masked and blatant furies of evil
Force their way in with their skeleton keys.
We wake to see how many are voluntarily blind,
Entranced by encrypted morality
We fight but the victories feel so small,
Compared to the crossfire of travesties.
But we’ve woven our souls out of spider silk,
And experiential snowflake lace
To be stronger than the weathered steel in our bones,
And more stunning than an arctic wolf’s grace.
So we toss our spiraling threads to the wind,
To catch the wickedness in our impenetrable web
A blockade that stretches but will never break,
Because it was spun by the grit of those who bled.
Ashley Crane, Phoenix, AZ