Once more a madman opens fire, sends grief traveling down the wire to those whose children have been shaken free. Can you imagine the broken mirrors, the windows black with incomprehension, doors left ajar for the silence to enter? This one’s alive with his eyes not right, hands insanely alive, his hair groomed and shoelaces tied as if he might still be the child his parents raised. They will take a scalpel to him and pull the skin away to show the veins and discover neural pathways they suspect of bringing him to this but it’s too late we cannot keep him in his corner nor send him away. He has inked his name and the terror it conveys in the main stone of another archway too many have to travel through. They stride across the continents these thoroughfares that drag our people places they would never gladly go. What voice can call to salve this hurt which is wider than the seven seas, more pervasive than the salt in water?
Phil Canon 