How long, Compassionate One, how long
will you allow our angry spirits to arm themselves
against their own children, our own children, your own children?

Every night we soak our news cycle with tears;
in the morning, the sun rises only to illuminate fresh wounds.

Not a day goes by that isn’t the anniversary
of someone’s grief, some atrocity.

We wring our hands, 
we mangle-press our souls with mourning;
our tears add salt to the wounded.

To whom will we turn, and who will save us
from the heart’s desire for blood?

Idols of metal will not breathe life,
and icons with feet of clay do not walk their words.

What then; are we left to our own devices?
But they are deadly.

No: we turn to you, Compassionate One,
with your endless forbearance and infinite mercy,
and pray that your patience will one day break;

because it seems some days that ours,
our capacity for carnage,
is everlasting.