It’s a snowy evening, dull dim and gray, in the martyrs garden.
I sit at the foot of her cross, as the fires are stilled in the winter.
Angels and demons and aliens all in the sky at night, full of anger.
I still follow her kindness, but her God stills no hand with a gun.
When blood in school halls was a brand new thing, she was taken.
I heard her priests say she was kind and love, no disciple of the gun.
Yet her kin are armed to the teeth, and full of anger, no love left.
Her God stills no hand with a gun, angels are silent as the grave.
I came all this way, in hopes I find my faith, or the hope she gave.
I came with an open hand, and fear of her kin, and of my own heart.
Snowy and now dark and starless, I am calm in the loss of faith.
She is in heaven. Her kin are thralls to the demons that took her.