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We hurt, we sing, we fight,
we pray, a human race here,
another there they said…

But all blood is red.

You have poked a snake, called
the same different, played the
game of hide and tweak—

with the Devil you sought peace
instead of the forgiveness
taught in Bible’s peak,

You have to love and listen
before your speak, the song
sung on podium’s dead…

All human blood is red.

Donald Trump, the hooting
and hollering of hatred from fear
of losing or anger of never having,

we blame a neighbor, our wives
instead of the calm look at our
own tweaked lives, this and

more, settling on your door,
like the stench of rain on your
dog’s coat, the sound of silence

broken by the caged parrot
breaking free in the empty blue
of pet store revelry, the God of

love is the only found so seek,
A long rest awaiting peace of
mind near heaven, blessed are

the meek.  The poor.  The
downtrodden will rise, the songs
words supplied, I’m talking of

the post-barfly path of the
abstinent walker of trails, could
be you, could be mine, the drift

of our lives toward peace and
childhood all the time.  The angry
and vengeful fall into their own

sulky trap of not seeing and
being the little boys and girls
grown up they can be, a deep

breath awaiting change, but until
then, take up your bed, walk with me,
and sing the song of what could be.

I’m hopeful not expecting the racist
to be well, to look up when called
away from their privately made hell.

Look around, see you in me, in them,
May God bless you to use your head.

See at last the truth before too late:
you are not that great…

We are all the same deep down,

All our blood is red.

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