Two miracles at least, they said,
But did not count those who’d been dead
Diagnosed with cancer.
A doctor without license gave
Hope and life. He tried to save
With yet another answer.
The folks he’s helped, alive and well,
Pass on the word as though all Hell
Were listening at the door.
Because it is. Guarding the bank,
The money-making sons of skank,
Taking lives and making war.
They shot him twice. Yes, in the head
“It was a suicide,” they said.
Where’s his research now, I wonder?
What if I try to list them here—
All the saints who’ve disappeared—
Will I be in their number?
Those who died for goodness sake
To make the world a better place
A light in darkness, boreal
Weeping, they bore precious seed
For all mankind, willing to bleed.
Our voice be their memorial.
It isn’t hard to do the right thing. . . it’s just a little harder than doing the wrong thing.