Bury Seeds, Not People

Why does the ground hold roots and also graves?
Why do our shadows pass through the big sun?
How does death get to spice her soup of death?

When guns were made, did bullets tell her craves?
Were playgrounds made not for kids to have fun?
What is with this exodus here on Earth?

To be sincere, of violence we are slaves,
of guns and pens, we’re the intended pun.
Black or white, these deaths will be the rebirth.

What ground holds much blood? What ocean brings waves?
Those brothers below, were they from the nun?
Let these skies be torn and heaven unearth.

If we keep raising thunder and the light?
When will it dawn on us that this is night?

Ruddapoet Rudolph