The Saints

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.

~ Gabe