The poem is below.
I read about the Isis rapes, the chopping up of African albino children, and, not as obviously horrific but so destructive as well, the pompous asses who think they should make all the rules, even when their druthers cause death and despair. I don’t know what to think.
But I can write.
My Brother’s Keeper
I cannot speak, nay think about such
heinous acts that make some seem
the devil’s spawn.
With the essence of each so
who am I to think my slate so clean?