Silence Too Sick For Stillness Poem by Eric Cockrell

small tiny hands limp,
the molded crust of your bread
falls to the floor....

never reaching the lips
the buddha-man on fire
never cried out....

they beat out the flames
with rifle butts....
pills ground and snorted,

the furnace goes out,
lights flicker and fade,
life seeps down the drain.

the young girl pounded
like a piece of leather,
cries without tears,

choking on the air....
the gun held in the hand
falls to the ground,

no one hears the sound,
no one says a prayer.
eyes that dont see,

ears that dont hear....
silence too sick for stillness,
graves unmarked and forgotten!