There are too many bombs in the air.
There are too many screams in the night.
O’ Sweet Mercy, look at us
from your perch in the sky
and whisper to the wicked,
“Son, put down your knife.’
—
How do you lay such blame
on sweet, swaddled babes,
dead in their mother’s arms,
for the wicked choices made,
by wicked men
with wicked hearts?
Just look away,
look away,
and sing
the last lullaby.
—
Oh, how I wish for clear skies.
Oh, may the sirens go silent.
May you look into mother’s eyes,
see the wild, echoing violence,
or, just look away
and hum
the last lullaby.
—
I’ve been to war, I understand
the seething rage of seeing
wicked men destroy
the treasures we’d made.
But,
if we can’t resolve
to kick in their doors,
we shouldn’t resolve
to bomb sweet babes,
crying
in cradles,
anymore.
—
Oh, how I wish for clear skies.
Oh, may the sirens go silent.
May you look into mother’s eyes,
see the wild, echoing violence,
or, just look away
and hum
the last lullaby.
©️ CG Tenpenny, 2025.
I’m so tired.