Violence at home

there’s no absolution for the fire in hell,
it looks not for ice
nor the way your conscience finds sleep.
you raise your words higher than your voice
the way your anger rises above your hand
the hands,
a trigger to the many guns that be
becoming water that drowns many fishes.
a child whose dreams never grow wings,
a mother whose soul is an antonym of joy
a father whose strength is in quietude
or me whose twinkle toes got ripped from his page.
there’s nothing domestic about violence
or a good type of lie
no shades of grey exist in heaven or hell.
next time you eat your lord, feed your mind too, it needs it.

Ruddapoet