You can call it whatever you want,
put whatever label on it you like,
but nothing makes the end result
any less bitter.
You can close your eyes,
vow to keep your mouth shut, turn and
turn and turn away from the truth
but, in the end, there’s really no escape:
he was only seven years old, maybe less,
and he’d been shot through the neck.
And your mother can still love you,
and your girlfriend or your wife
or your brothers and your sisters
can still love you, but some nights,
around midnight, you remember:
he was only seven, maybe less,
and that’s as old as he’d ever be.
Open Link Night #278