Broken

This is.
My place, locked forever between soil and sea.
Home.  Or at least to me and my contemporaries.
I claim it as my own, my home, my safe place, because I am big and strong.

How wrong is that? Safety should be universal not personal.

Six billion people living in different
Villages,
Town,
Cities.
Communities

Places peopled by men and women just like me.
People. Produced by this land or that land,

Line-bred to be just so. ‘cause that’s how it goes here! there!
everywhere! Like grass growing on a green verge, tall and straight,

seed heads held high as far as the eye can see.

Except.
Wait.
Because.
They aren’t.

Look close at any crop,
­                 Or flock
­                           Or community

And see. Some are twisted, some don’t flow with the herd
or bend with the wind. Acquaintances warped.
­               Friends different.
­                                The twisted blades

And our eyes.

Yes our eyes

Our Eyes, OUR EYES

that look away. Say that it is ok.

To beat kids, to hit women, to hit anyone.
To rape kids, to rape women to rape anyone.

We look away from them

These broken blades that scythe the hot wind of what we like to call sin.

What is sin?
does sin excuse the abuser?
In the confessional with who?
­                           The Professional
­                                          ABUSER.

Does calling it sin, mean it can be forgiven,
make less grave the rape.

The Abuse
The Taking of identity
­     Dignity
­              Anonymity
­                         The need to cry

We forgive
and we excuse
and we ignore.

The abusers of the innocent. Creatures bent out of shape by
Perversions,
Sickness,
Weir­dness.

We can coin a thousand excuses for the abuses they commit,
­                Say they are sick,
­                               not to blame.
In a society that aims to exonerate everybody,
we can lift a thousand rugs

and sweep it out of sight, the blight that offends our eyes.
But it’s still THERE

It’s not fucking right and it never will be fucking right.

To ignore,
and deplore,
and shame
in the name
­of goddamn forgiveness
­                                            The Victims
­
The people already suffering

You know it must stop.
You know,
The hurt,
The pain,
Th­e Life taken,
­                                Forsaken

We who stand and stare, glare, glance, dance around truths
­                     That need to be spoken

Need to stand against the abusers and mend the truly broken.

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

 

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