Ricocheting around the violent,
spinning hands of time.
Recoiling the wished upon stars,
tears and snow,
falling like copper casings.
Echoing whitewashed reminisce,
of the ravaged, passages of herstory.
Rocketing through bloodstained boulevards,
in a flighted Bird, targeting glory,
on overheated, Michigan treads.
Spinning through the seasons,
with the spinning lead
And sirens screaming,
from the tattered back seats,
of a hot Ford, 57.
Leaving behind family, friends,
and the dearly departed,
atop a ghetto trash heap.
Blowing frost and fire through the black powder smoke
of two blazing, Magnum forty-fours.
Sacraments for the King’s Son,
and those they found,
as accessories after the fact.
Cause evil seeds sown on an historic trust funds,
with country club martini’s,
never fall far from the orchards.
But who will pay for two runaway
Junior High squeezes,
that paid with justice served,
years before they
would see a, Justice of the peace.
Even if it meant, a lasting,
wanted poster memory, inside their families,
half empty albums of what should’ve been.
On the shelves beside twenty more,
Scattered into the winds,
with the weighted wailing,
of a million tears cried.
Who involuntary had to sign away and carve dates,
for the innocent, legally buried under the grounds,
And bounded within platinum mounted lies.
For little Sister who will never come home,
from the bottom of many forgotten,
Leaving Ten years of youthful hope and dreams,
Fallen victims to schemes,
and plans to stay ahead of sworn in killers.
With dawn breaking at forty over
from their last Federally, funded Shoot, out.
She’s praying for Mexico, outside of Santa Fe,
a devastated widow of twenty-thee,
With two golden twins, crying, for Daddy.
As she silently does the same,
For another innocence lost.
2017 ~ Words and Illustrations ~ Ruth Ann Cutler