red-stained fingertips

childish angels of the unwanted truth

so many fathers — where are their children?

have you seen the funerals?
have you seen the tears?

mothers cry with black clothing adorning red flesh.
all those funny black hats and mustaches.

i see it all. im sure you see it too.

im with the children.
just like you.

and there! — at the crest of the horizon line.
i see a tall man with a shovel.

mothers and fathers and all their black clothing.
it won't keep their world from perpetually imploding.

and us children will occasionally watch.
wondering when someone will notice it.

that the mothers and fathers are all irrelevant.

no one will ever truly know.
what they did to the children.
that they are burying six feet below.