He stepped into daylight as if it were neutral.
The sun blinked but guns did not.
Three bullets rewrote
his biography in the parking lot.
His wife dropped their child
when the bullets tore through him.
Two months old, still learning how to breathe.
The asphalt opened
like a courtroom with no judge.
The blood didn’t dry. It fossilized.
His briefcase is still warm with arguments
he never got to make.
Justice was not blind that day,
it was a marionette with snapped strings.
Widow marks anniversaries by flowers,
two bouquets every time.
The child would have been
old enough to ask questions.
But the answer is still bleeding
in the cracks of that concrete.
-
Author:
Aman 12 (
Offline) - Published: December 1st, 2025 06:39
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, jarcher54
Offline)
Comments3
Still don't know where you live, but it could well be some part of Sydney....
A very powerful poem, that evokes strong images and raises the emotions. It does not address the hose wears or even wins, but the simple act itself becomes sufficient. The issue of justice is strongly questioned in this poem very well done and a favorite.
Strong confident images. They are quite original but crisp and clear. The juxtaposition of a newborn and the dying is old stuff but rings true here. Intellectually a bit cold but quite a gut punch. Nice work.
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