#PicturePoetryPrompt: Gun Control

From North of the border,
I watch my American friends
suffer time and again.
A vicious cycle repeating.

Bullets fired from GUNS
are worth more than
LIVES
I hear again and again.

And yet there’s a growing chorus
Of voices.
Young
Old
Female
Male
Gay
Straight
Black
White.

They scream for CONTROL
United against a bigger threat.
They don’t want to hide
Afraid and alone
from angry people who take their rage
like tidal waves
and crash into innocents.

They want change.
Not to take all the GUNS away
But to restrict the types
Create stiffer rules.
What threat is this
to your freedoms,
My GUN owning friends?

They should be free
to feel SAFE
In a Grocery store
In a School
At a Concert
At a Hospital
At a Synagogue
At a Church

ANYWHERE.

But the NRA has friends
who view CONTROL
as an evil worse than plague
WHICH IT’S NOT.
When did your fellow Americans’ LIVES
come to mean so little?

I see this on my screens
In our papers.
As a Canadian,
I’m thankful for our GUN CONTROL.
I feel SAFE.
If only the change Americans need
would come on swift wings.
I wish you all could feel SAFE
On every day’s journeys.

You see,
I think no man, woman or child
should be afraid to leave their home
for fear of flying bullets
shot from vicious GUNS
hunting them down.

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Feverish Dreams

My dreams plague me with vivid realities so farfetched and daunting I’ve no choice, but to run. My feet pound against barren dirt, stirring dust into the air. Despite the burning feel of it, I must push on.
 
Glancing behind me, I see a pack of wolves. Scratch that. They’re much bigger than wolves. Much faster, too. Their snarls echo off the cave walls I’ve been placed in by my overactive imagination. I know it’s not real and yet my heart races.
 
Teeth sink into my calf and I fall forward with a scream. The wet, slickness of blood drips down my leg and sends these unknown creatures into a frenzy. Their bites shred my arms to ribbons.
 
Just when I’m about to pass out, I have been transported to the centre of a storm. No shelter in sight. But of course, I say to myself and will my sleeping self to rouse. It’s of no use.
 
The rain shifts from small drops to heavy bullets, or so it feels. My skin tingles and bruises under the assault. Thankfully my limbs are restored and I can run towards the edge of the clouds. The ground is wet and I slip with each step. Mud grabs my shoe off and I keep running, leaving it to the land. I can see the sun shining beyond the black clouds and I yearn for its serenity.
 
It’s too late, though. Hail the size of watermelons falls from the clouds. Lightning forks, stabbing at my tiny presence on the ground. The thunder sounds like laughter amidst the roar of the storm.
 
For the first time in years, I stop running. I stand in the centre of the chaos and let the storm strike me down. It doesn’t take long. Both hail and lightning hit me and it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever felt.
 
I wake with a shout and feel my head, inspect my pillows for blood. Everything’s wet from my sweating heat and my skin’s red. Upon closer inspection, I see white forks winding under my skin, following my veins.
 
Not again, I think and lapse back into darkness.
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