The summer days have lost 
their Maypole grip and fly 
chaotic, only to land crumpled 
beside nineteen little bodies 
on their classroom floor— 
every life a song, a light 
gone out.  

I am stunned by the stumbling 
of those drunk on power 
left wanting in judgement 
by their addiction, lamed 
and floundering.  

We, too, flail as we drown in lament: 
families, classmates, casket makers— 
all of us victims in perpetual circles 
ripples of the madness of a man
and his guns.