Six Foot Race

Bring me the end,
Of everything we know and love.

For fathers and sons,
Are done playing with guns,

Bullets beating hurricanes,
Futures dowsed in futile flames.

Mothers, daughters left to chase,
Longing for deaths warm embrace.

Reality’s a broken frame,
Left to play a senseless game.

Shoved into an early grave,
Lost inside last nights haze.

We’ve failed with our symphony,
Bliss but a youthful reverie.