The gunshots echo and I wake up screaming,
I guess I really must have been dreaming.
I think and rethink how I could change,
Take my son out of their range.
I dab at my eyes and wonder how,
I would move on with life now.
My pretty daughter with hands painted red,
Lies in her final bed.
Here is my brother in a deep sleep,
And his innocence he shall keep,
I watch him sleep and remember the times,
We were together, partners in crime.
And one last time her mother leaves,
And she; one last tear heaves,
Remembering the argument she had that morn,
About the dress she should have worn.
For the last time, his father he sees,
Stands up; and his mind he frees.
No more tears; he must be strong,
The family must not feel something is wrong.