A Short Poem
Those two men lie on the floor,
Each with bullets to their heads,
No matter what the media says,
No matter what the city lore.
Men talk about it with other
Men in comfy leather chairs.
Children cry and sirens blare,
But no matter how much two brothers
Cry with blood-red, tear stained eyes,
No matter who is locked up in jail,
Those two dead mean forever stare,
And I cannot tell you why.