The Safoora Goth Incident.

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.


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