My first thought: retribution - taking so many
        young lives. Then. A pox upon my body
        for the ones that didn’t die. A slow perish,
        shot only once to diminish the threat, then
        cursed with the malice of blood. This river

        tainted with but a few drops. Yet still enough
        to spoil the catch. Like miltless eggs
        stretched long in furrows, nestled low
        in the streambed, fated as forage for Brooks,
        Browns or even their own. A fallow nourishment,

        yet food just the same. Like colors cast down
        upon the sky following a disquieting storm,
        one that renders God misquoted, cursed or
        denied. As if we can set the tone, then steal
        ourselves away. Anticipating our remission.

        Suspecting we alone are destined to perish,
        walking slowly astray. Baffled, yet recompense.

 Every Broken Thing


The Poetry Of Lance McKnight