"Poetry makes nothing happen"
- W.H. Auden
When the gunman stormed our classroom
at the School for Creative Arts, it was clear
we had no proper defense against assault.
Bullets tore through our manuscript pages.
Stretched painted canvases gave way as well.
The clay pots, freshly kilned, shattered.
One of the composers violin'd in vain -
"Nearer My God To Thee" - a song once
harmonized by a famous sinking ship's quartet.
Still, music could not stall the madness.
Our deaths were tallied into internet infographs,
their bar charts rising steady as oceans.
This boy sang in a beautiful tenor tone.
[So much blood]
This girl was designing a new video game.
This one had a mother. They all had mothers.
I woke up from the dream; kissed
my life and luck as such thus far.
I've always been such a literal dreamer.
Awake now, I write this
and send it to the homes of the gunmen
yet to come.
So what happens next?
That I don't know.
You tell me.