A Poem for Pulse

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Source: Maryneart/Instagram

The noise of death filled the air as he reloaded, groan after groan, clip after clip and screams exploded, filling rooms where music no longer induced dance movement and lively gyration, the floor became a death bed of bloody damnation, spilling out and filling spaces where I saw myself in the eyes of the black and brown faces he felt so comfortable being amongst, before destroying trust once again in humanity’s ability to love without judgement. I see myself in each and every one of them. But I remain silent with my hands up, helpless in a country where to be black and brown is death sentence enough, although we will all die one day, their light was taken too soon by what is characterized as a terrorist, a down low radical, a man unable to come to terms with his own attraction to – the same sex. As senseless as the killings, a just as senseless debate ensues. Which American tragedy was worse, which garnered the biggest death toll, which sleeper cell will activate next, when ISIS tells it to, which media distraction can best believe and sway the mass of fools, how did he get into the club with a machine gun and did other shooters contribute.

While families mourn and are destroyed by one precious loss of life, the rest of the nation carries on as day turns into night, with no real end in sight. Tragedy is like the weather on opposite sides of the earth, it only affects us in that moment unless we are in its direct path, can we truly understand the gravity of the situation incurred. We have moments of silence and hold vigils of hyped up significance. We write poetry and of our own personal stories of loss and tragedy we reminisce. We see ourselves in the victims, but never in the perpetrator of such implicit violence. Thoughts are weapons too and the future impact does not remain silent. It is like a tidal wave, of electric currents rendering that which seeks to connect with those whose deeds become timeless. We are allowed to hype our pain because it is that significant, and of the killer to eviscerate because he is hell sent, and of the tragedy to best relate, and of the families, please often pray. You don’t have to believe in God to pray, or believe that God made way for such carnage to take place. To the atheists: God had no say. Our will is free and the choices we make reflect a deep rooted belief in come what may. Mark my words. The victims of the killer will all dance again one day. There will be hell to pay because even forgiveness can be a life sentence in this life or the next instance. There will be no virgins in paradise for this coward no matter the promised intent. The guilt of being alive and surviving the terror will rule the minds of those who made it through the blood barrier. It is them we must now enshroud. With our voices we stir the crowd of discontent at dishonest judgement. Those people did not deserve to die. Conspiracy theories have no room to lie, for the only false flag is the one that flies at half staff for a people often called names like fag, no longer vile but just as bad and to the poor families having to bury their young rainbow clad soldiers and warriors armed with nothing but laughs before being taken too soon for everything they had. Out my heart pours.

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