A casket upon the ground.
No one around to make a sound.
An abandoned coffin on the hill.
The hill is quiet, all is still.
A faded name long inscribed.
No more protests. No one hides.
The sun knows no early, knows no late,
nor does it care about why we hate.
There’s no one to feel the breeze,
no one to hear the rustling leaves.
There’s but the unshorn grass
growing long, growing fast.
No lingering sobs or mournful cries
where pain is real, where bullets fly.
No more innocents to die,
no more you, no more I.
Upon an abandoned casket inscribed,
upon a hillside so described,
a word no one sees,
©January 2016, Christina Anne Hawthorne